


over this threshold

by orphean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24726322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: 'I don't understand how tax evasion relates to you going on a date with, do I need to remind you, Bruce Wayne.'Clark bit his tongue.'We're going to get married. It's a tax break, not tax evasion.''Are you kidding me.' Lois stared. 'That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.'———Bruce asks Clark to marry him for tax reasons. Clark, against his better judgment, agrees.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 123
Kudos: 522





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Sobre Este Umbral](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27458389) by [Giossel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giossel/pseuds/Giossel)



> I thought “wouldn’t it be funny if Bruce and Clark got married for tax reasons?” and then I wrote ~60k on this, with barely any references to the taxes (if you know anything about taxes, please suspend your disbelief and let’s pretend).
> 
> Some notes on canon: this is set in the DCEU and follows BvS except that Jimmy Olsen is all comics and a chill photographer guy. Apart from the Justice League existing and Clark not being dead, there’s not really anything from _Justice League_. It’s set a few years after Clark returns from the dead and there is some kind of Justice League, though they still have their meetings in the Batcave, with neither the Manor nor the Watchtower set up as the headquarters yet. Dick shows up a couple of chapters in, and he’s mostly based on the _Titans_ Dick Grayson. Once I started writing this I read a lot of comics, so expect characterisation influence from the comics as a whole.
> 
> The first chapter features the Gotham-Metropolis train line. After writing this I realised that the connection was a ferry, not a train, but I love trains, so let’s say they have both.
> 
> I firmly believe that Clark’s the kind of guy who would own a Kånken backpack. Probably that green one that looks ancient even when it’s brand new. I will accept no criticism on this take.
> 
> This is finished, although I’m still in the process of reading through the later chapters. Expect updates on a semi-regular basis! More tags will be added when the relevant characters/themes show up.
> 
> Title from The National’s “Oblivion”:  
>  _It's the way you say yes when I ask you to marry me  
>  You don't know what you are doing  
> Do you think you can carry me  
> Over the threshold  
> Over and over again until oblivion?_

Clark knew Bruce was in Metropolis long before he saw him. He heard his beating heart when he entered the building foyer, when he travelled up the elevator, when he flirted with the receptionist. His heart beat slowly and Clark forgot to listen to anything else. He stared at the blinking cursor, no longer remembering what he was supposed to be writing.

 _Tomorrow._ That was what Bruce had texted him late last night.

'Mr Kent.'

Clark jumped in his seat. Bruce was leaning against the screen of his cubicle, smirking at him.

'Mr Wayne. What can I do for you?' His smile surely looked as nervous as he felt. (There was no need to actually be nervous, he reminded himself. It was all pretend. Right. He was acting.)

'Well, you can tell me if you'll still be there in fifteen minutes. Want to catch your boss. Have him give me the rundown on what's new. Then I'll be back.'

Sometimes, Clark forgot that Bruce owned the Daily Planet. Sometimes, Clark forgot that Bruce was rich enough to buy an _entire newspaper_. (Or a _bank_ , for that matter.) Today, in his perfectly cut suit (by some indescribably niche and exclusive Italian designer, no doubt) and his swagger, he couldn't help but remember.

'I'll be here.'

If Clark was a little breathless, then that was alright. It was a good piece of acting, surely, except it wasn't acting at all. He watched Bruce walk over to Perry's office, his ridiculously expensive shoes clacking against the cheap linoleum. His suit was _very_ well-cut.

Clark tried to focus on everything that wasn't listening. He didn't really want to overhear whatever smarmy Bruce Wayne bullshit Bruce was feeding his boss. He typed up a paragraph on what the proposed tax hikes would mean for small businesses. He deleted it. He tried again, and it would have to do. He was halfway through a sentence with already-too-many conjunctions and clauses when Bruce reappeared.

'Mr Kent.' Bruce looked him up and down, and the way he licked his lips was excessive. It was less than half a second, but Bruce must have known Clark would see it. He was _teasing_ Clark. (But he didn't know how Clark felt, so at least he hoped it wasn't out of spite.) 'Mr White says you're a good writer.'

'I do what I can.' From the corner of his eye, he saw that Lois had turned her head slightly. She clearly didn't share his scruples when it came to eavesdropping.

'Are you as good a drinks companion?'

'What.'

(That was the correct response when a billionaire hit on you, right?)

'Let me take you out, Mr Kent.' His eyes twinkled. Lois turned her entire chair, watching the debacle unfolding behind her.

'Uh. Okay.'

'Such _enthusiasm_. When should I have you picked up? You seem –' another lascivious look up and down Clark's figure, 'like a diligent worker. How about eight? I know a nice cocktail place. I'll send a car.'

'Eight's fine.' Stupidly flushed, Clark tried a twist of a smile.

'Look forward to it, Kent.'

With a wink, Bruce turned on his heel and left.

Three seconds later, Lois was at his desk.

'What, and excuse me, the _fuck_.' She didn't sound mad. She seemed incredulous, shocked, and with no patience for lies.

'Um. Let's go somewhere to talk.'

The roof was the place to talk. With Lois it always had been, and it was a good place to tell the truth.

'Why on earth are you going on a date with _Bruce Wayne_?' Lois knew that Bruce was Batman, and that probably didn't help her wrap her head around it.

'It's not a real date.'

'Seemed pretty real to me. His eyes pretty much ate you up – did you not see that? Much worse than anything I ever did to you in the office when we were dating.'

Clark rubbed the bridge of his nose. He bit his lip. He tried to think of a way to explain himself without sounding like an idiot.

'It's tax breaks.'

'What.'

'Bruce wants to put some of his fortune in a better place than the American war machine. His words, not mine. Did you know that 25% of US taxes goes to the military? He wants to put it back into Gotham. Make things better. Help the cause.' _Cause_ was the closest he would say, but it was clear what he meant: the Justice League. Certain things you didn't talk about in broad daylight in a reporter's ill-fitting suit.

'I don't understand how tax evasion relates to you going on a date with, do I need to remind you, Bruce Wayne.'

Clark bit his tongue.

'We're going to get married. It's a tax break, not tax evasion.'

'Are you fucking kidding me.' Lois stared. 'That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard.'

Clark worried his lip between his teeth and waited for her stare to grow kinder.

'That's so Bruce Wayne. It's selfish. It's callous. He's using you, Clark. What if – what if you fall in love with someone?'

'Then I do what married people who fall in love do: I'll get a divorce. And I don't think it's very likely, anyway. I had one good shot at love.' He glanced over at her and she softened, just slightly. He was long over her, and she even longer over him, and their past intimacy was now nothing but a shared fond memory. 'All in all, he has a lot more to lose than I do. Worst case scenario for me: I'm the divorcee of a billionaire. Worst case scenario for him: he'll have married me.'

Lois frowned.

'Isn't the worst case scenario one where something... bad happens between you? Something that destroys your – partnership. Friendship.' She reached out and took his hand, threading their fingers together. Now, she sounded concerned instead of frustrated.

Clark thought of what Bruce had planned when they first met. His fury. His boot on Clark's neck.

'I think we're safe. We've been through the worst already.'

She squeezed his hand. She rested her head against his shoulder. For a moment, time paused and it was just Clark and Lois, together as they always had been. Then she sat up straight again and squinted at him.

'You know if he hurts you, he'll have to answer to me.'

They both laughed at that.

* * *

At eight o'clock, Clark waited in the foyer, drumming his fingers against his knee. He had finished his work hours ago – blasted through his report on the widening knowledge gaps between the Metropolis school districts in thirty seconds when he knew no one was watching him – and since then, had prevented four car crashes, stopped one tornado, and rescued two cats from a tree (somehow, the same tree, hours apart). He was wondering if he should've changed his tie. He had bought it in a second-hand shop several years ago and had spent no more than three dollars on it. He wondered how much Bruce's ties cost. Hundreds of dollars, surely. Could ties cost that much? He made a mental note to look into it.

'Mr Kent?' A woman in black was looking at him. She had to be the driver of the car that Bruce had promised to send.

'Yes, that's me.' He stood. 'You're with Mr Wayne?'

'Wayne Enterprises, actually.'

Her response was terse. She clearly did not enjoy having to play chauffeur to the CEO's date. (Oh god, _date._ ) She was still a very good chauffeur, opening his door for him and driving in silence. All Clark could hear was the beating of his own heart. He wondered if Bruce was nervous. Of course he wasn't. He was Bruce Wayne.

'Here you are. He told me to tell you he's got a reservation.' 

Leaving the car, he paused for a second. What was proper etiquette here – should he tip? He ended up erring on the side of caution, slipping her a crinkled bill. She accepted it without a thank you.

Bruce was late. The waitress who led him to the table smiled a little, as though apologising for his tardiness.

‘Mr Wayne usually orders off the menu. Would you like to look at it, though?'

'Oh, um. That'll be fine. I'll just have some water for now, please.'

After she left, he looked around the bar. Perhaps _bar_ was too inelegant a name for this place, with its heavy chairs and bar of mahogany, the draping of velvet across the ceiling and circled booths, the glass-and-chrome tables. The walls were strewn with portraits of 19th century Metropolis politicians interspersed with unexpected taxidermied animals. Above the mantle there were three bats, wings spread. No wonder Bruce liked this place. A speakeasy, not a bar. He glanced at the other patrons, the majority of whom he didn't recognise. A few politicians, a couple of business leaders he had interviewed once or twice, but most of them were unknown men and women dressed in nicer clothes than Clark would ever buy.

Again, he felt self-conscious about his clearance rack shirt and old tie.

Ten minutes later he heard the familiar heartbeat. He sipped his water and tried to still his own pulse.

'Clark. Glad you could make it.' Bruce was at his side, a hand glancing over his shoulder. The touch was light, friendly, electric. 'Veronica, could we swap seats? I was thinking a booth today.'

'Of course, Mr Wayne. What's your order?'

When they were both seated in the booth, their legs just touching (a constant state of warmth that Clark had not been ready for), Bruce pursed his lips and turned to the waitress.

'A Sazerac for my friend here. Classic. And for me – surprise me.'

'You got it.'

'Do you come here a lot?' Clark had to turn slightly to face Bruce, cataloguing all at once the things he found so charming and unexpected about him: the greying of his temples; the dimples that almost always stayed hidden; the keen intelligence that he seemed to want to hide. They were sitting very close.

Bruce propped his chin against the heel of his hand.

'It's good for business.'

'I thought you wanted a drinking companion. Am I business to you?'

The slow smirk that had made thousands of girls shudder. The amusement that twinkled in his eyes. Bruce was _good_ at this. He was good at being lascivious and flirting and _wanting._ (He was good at _pretending_.)

His free hand brushed Clark's knee before he responded.

'Mr Kent, with you business _is_ pleasure.'

Clark bit off the unintended _Jesus_ that comment elicited in him when the waitress – Veronica? – came back.

'Right then. Here's that Sazerac for you, sir,' she flashed a quick grin at Clark when she placed his drink in front of him, before giving Bruce a matching smile, 'and for you, a Corpse Reviver №2.'

Clark saw the sudden flash of emotion on Bruce's face for a fraction of a second before his face was clearer than a summer's day and he smiled at the waitress.

'Thank you.'

A minute passed, then two. Bruce stared at the coupe in front of him and said nothing. This was not the Bruce Wayne who had mankind's most charming sneer and who could sweet-talk his way into and out of all sorts of indecorum. This was Bruce, who carried all the mistakes of the playboy and the vigilante, who watched death and misery and expected himself to brush both of them off, pretending that it wasn't sinking him to the bottom of oceans.

'Corpse reviver.' Clark finally said. He tried his own drink, the smallest sip. He wouldn't get drunk – he _couldn't_ get drunk – but he could still appreciate the drink, powerful and subtle all at once. 'What's in it?'

'Gin. Cointreau. Lillet. Rinse of absinthe.' Bruce finally touched his drink, snaking his elegant fingers against the stem, and downing half the drink all at once. 'Hell of drink.'

'Hell of a name. What's it from?'

'It has to do with hangovers. Not – not literal corpses.' 

He cleared his throat and took a sip of the water the waitress had brought him. There was a conversation they could have. There was a conversation that they had skirted around for weeks and months and years, a conversation that they _should_ have had and one which by mutual unspoken agreement they had never spoken of, never wanted to drag up. (Just like Bruce had dragged up Clark's body from his grave. A grave robber. A corpse reviver.)

'What's Lillet?' Clark asked instead.

'It's an aperitif wine. Tonic wine.' Bruce thumbed over the rim of the glass, tracing a pattern through the condensation of the coupe. 'Wine and liqueur, mixed. Bordeaux. There's three kinds – white, rose, red. This uses white, naturally. People serve it as an aperitif sometimes. Can be served with desserts, too. Versatile. Underused in cocktails, really. There's this. Old Etonian. Vesper.'

'Like the James Bond character?'

Bruce exhaled, the hint of a smile hiding in the creases of his face.

'Yes. Bond fan, Mr Kent?' He had moulded himself back into the playboy, all easy charm and searching gazes. He was leaning back against the back of the booth now, cocktail in one hand, the other arm resting on the top of the booth (his fingers almost brushing Clark's hair, something that was surely both very intentional and very accidental).

'I admire a man who gets so much done with nothing but his wits. And gadgets worth a minor fortune.' He said it to make Bruce laugh. He succeeded. 'But you seem to know your cocktails, Mr Wayne. What makes this Sazerac classic?'

'May I?' Bruce accepted the squat glass, his own drink returned to the table, taking a quick sip before handing it back to Clark. Their fingers brushed as he accepted the drink. The burn of the sazerac battled the burn of Bruce's touch. 'Nowadays, the Sazerac is typically served with rye. Traditionally, it was cognac. You can taste the difference by how floral it is. Notes of – oh, jasmine, maybe. Marzipan. Vanilla, but not the kind of vanilla you get from rye. Rye is harsh, aggressive. Cognac is like a kiss. It's a better drink.'

'I do prefer kisses to aggression.' Clark tried a flirtatious grin behind the glass and took another sip. Once named, he could taste all those flavours. Almondy sweetness tempered with floral elegance. At the back, there was something else. Something _herbal_. 'What else is in it?'

'Absinthe. So: aniseed. Fennel. Bad decisions, if you drink enough of it.' He winked.

'I don't need alcohol to make bad decisions.'

'I'm evidence of that, aren't I?' Bruce finished his drink in a second long draft. His amusement was infectious. Clark couldn't help but mirror his grin. He held his cocktail, drinking it slowly. He watched Bruce hold his empty coupe between two fingers, balancing it perfectly in the air. 'Did you know legend says this glass shape is based on Marie Antoinette's breast?' He let it drop, catching it in the V of his fingers, clasping the saucer firmly. 'It's not true of course. Most legends aren't.'

Neither needed to say what they both knew. Some legends were true. The legends of the bat who was a man were very true and very real. And that legend was staring at Clark as though he were his next meal.

'Veronica.' Bruce reached out a hand across the table when the waitress passed them. Clark's glass was still half-full. 'Would you surprise us? Maybe something slightly lighter for my friend.'

As Bruce uttered _my friend_ , Clark felt his fingers brush against the top of his shoulder blades, trailing up the nape of his neck, stroking his hair. He held his breath until he felt sure he could breathe without shuddering.

Clark hadn't heard of either of the cocktails that she brought them, but Bruce was able to explain them and talk through their respective histories. His drink, the Ward Eight, had its origins in American politics. It was a marriage of whiskey, citrus, and sugar. As a drink, it was a lot like Bruce as a person. A little bitter, a little rough around the edges, but leaving you wanting more. Clark thought this, but didn’t say anything. His own cocktail, the Sidecar, was another cognac complexity that was smooth, generous, and elegant. It was the kind of cocktail, Clark thought, he would enjoy getting drunk on.

If he could get drunk, that is. But sitting with Bruce, who was perhaps not drunk, but more soft around the edges than Clark had ever seen him, made him feel just slightly tipsy.

They had another round. For Clark, a 20th Century. ( _I lied, I guess,_ Bruce admitted. _There's a lot more drinks with Lillet than I remember. But this one has cacao in it, so who remembers the tonic wine?_ The question was rhetorical.) For Bruce, a Last Word. ( _You can't go wrong with gin. Did you know that chartreuse was made by monks? It's not just a colour, y'know._ ) Halfway through the cocktail – green like powdered kryptonite – Bruce's hand was roaming against the back of Clark's head, stroking and scratching, dragging nails into his scalp and smoothing his hair with his soft fingertips. Clark leaned into the touch, just enough to show his interest (which was part of the plan, which wasn't anything but appropriate), just little enough to play coy.

'You are a good drinking companion,' Bruce said, once last call was announced and Veronica had taken his black credit card. His eyes were heavy, and his voice was dark and rough. 'Wanna get dinner sometime?'

'I'd like that.'

They staggered out of the bar together: Bruce's uncertain steps genuine; Clark's a poor imitation. A hundred yards from the entrance, Bruce squeezed the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

'I shouldn't drive.' he said, more lucid than he had been in the last hour. Clark couldn't tell which was the lie.

'Do you want me to?' Clark was sure that the car he had taken to Metropolis was garish and expensive. He hoped he knew how to handle it.

'Can you drive a manual?'

'Yes,' Clark lied. He had driven a manual car twice. How hard could it be?

Bruce threw him the keys and led him to the car. He slumped into the passenger seat once Clark unlocked it, downing a bottle of water stashed in the glove compartment. It was a Bentley. That much Clark could tell. He adjusted the seat and started driving. After a few false starts, he remembered the rhythm of driving the manual. 

'Don't forget the clutch. Listen to the car and change gears when she makes an angry sound. She's an animal, not a machine.' Bruce had covered his face with his forearm, his seat just slightly leaned back. He sounded sleepy and just north of intoxicated.

'Gotham doesn't need watching tonight?'

'Dick stepped in for the night.'

'Did you tell him why?' Clark had only met Dick twice in the years he'd known Bruce. The things he knew about Dick could be counted on one hand: he was legally, though not technically, Bruce's son; since Jason's death, he didn't talk to Bruce as much as they used to; as Nightwing, he could leap through the air just as beautifully as a metahuman would.

'Personal business.' Bruce let his arm drop and looked at Clark. He focused on the road and tried to stay undistracted by Bruce's dark stare. 'He doesn't want me in his business. I keep him out of mine.'

It wasn't Clark's place to question his parenting.

Minutes of silence. The hum of the car, their deep breaths, and the expanse of highway between the city of light and the city of smog.

'I told Lois.' the words fell from his mouth before he knew what he was saying. Bruce watched him and said nothing. 'She said I was being stupid.'

'Aren't you?' There was a cruel edge to his word, a condescending twinge he didn't care to keep hidden.

'Am I?' Clark asked.

Bruce said nothing at all.

* * *

The next day, right around lunch, when Clark came back from a debrief with Jimmy and Perry, a bouquet waited for him at his desk. The office was near-empty, as it often was during lunch. 

'Holy shit.' Jimmy watched him unwrap the bouquet, revealing a flush of roses, hydrangeas, and peonies. 'What's that, a $300 bouquet?'

'I dunno.' Clark stared at the bouquet, noticing the tiny white envelope hidden among the blooms.

'Got a new girlfriend?'

'Not a girlfriend,' he murmured and ripped the envelope open. Inside, a business card printed on heavy card stock. On the back, a short message written in Bruce's distinctive looped writing:

_Dinner next Monday? Gotham Ritz. Wear something nice. – B._

Jimmy snatched the card from him, reading the message before turning the card over.

'Wayne Enterprises...' he muttered. Something glinted in his eye and he flipped the card over, then back again. 'Wayne. B. _Bruce Wayne_ ? Wear something _nice_?'

'Give me that.' Clark followed Jimmy, who stepped out of range from each of Clark's roving attempts to grab the card. 'Seriously, Jimmy, give it back.'

'Jeez. Okay.'

Clark snapped the card back and stuffed it in his back pocket.

'Don't tell anyone.' Clark chewed his lower lip. 'It’s just been one date this far.'

'Is that's why you and Lois broke up?' Jimmy may not have known them back when they were dating, but he had heard enough gossip through the grapevine to know their history. 'Because you're gay?'

'Jesus, I – no, I'm not – that's not why we broke up.' Clark swallowed and slumped into his desk chair. He almost forgot to control his strength and the chair made an unsettlingly creaking sound. 'It had nothing to do with my – uh – preferences. I always found her very attractive.'

'Does she know?'

'About what?' Clark was tired of this conversation, tired of Jimmy’s comments jumping between teasing schoolboy and thoughtful friend.

'I dunno. You dating, y'know.' Jimmy nodded towards the flowers.

'Yeah, I told her.' He pressed his fingers against his face, letting the swirl of blood in his eyelids distract him for a second. 'She doesn't approve. Not because he's, y'know. _He._ It's more of a personality clash. She thinks I can do better.'

Jimmy perched on his desk, his grin half-cocked.

'I mean, he seems like a bit of a dick. But he sends nice flowers. That's something.'

'He _is_ nice. I like him.' Clark hadn't meant to say this, and when had he decided to lie to Jimmy? He knew he would have to lie to some people, to people he didn't know, but apart from his mother, Lois, and the League, Jimmy was his closest friend. 'Please don't be difficult about this.'

'Hey, Clark. I didn't mean to be difficult. You're just so easy to tease. Not a good excuse, I know. But will you keep me up to date about what how it's going?'

'Sure.'

Jimmy leaned in close, a smug grin spreading over his face.

'So, have you kissed yet?'

The novelty stapler (a whale, gifted by Arthur for Clark's birthday last year) hit Jimmy, and he yelped and backed off. He checked his watch. 

'Gotta bounce, Kent. You should think of a lie for those flowers.'

Clark studied the bouquet.

'A grateful interviewee?'

Jimmy wrinkled his nose. The elevator _dinged_ , signifying the return of the lunch exodus.

'Secret admirer. Go with that.'

When Lois returned, she studied the flowers in great detail, a hand on Clark's shoulder as she leaned over them. Her _hmm_ was not necessarily one of disapproval.

'Do you want them?' Clark found himself asking. She smiled and shook her head.

'No. They're for you. I guess it went well?'

Clark told her about the date, Bruce's incessant stories and his absolute charm. He told her about the cocktails and Bruce's knowledge about every single one. He didn't tell her about Bruce's dark eyes or his hand roaming through his hair.

'Maybe he's not that bad. But take care of yourself, kid.' She ruffled his hair before she returned to her desk.

Finally alone, he pulled out his phone.

_Monday's good. I don't think my 'nice' will pass muster for the Ritz, tho. Somewhere more casual, maybe?_

Fifteen seconds later, his phone dinged.

_There'll be something in the office for you Monday. Dinner's 7.45._

Fifteen minutes later, Clark was still staring at the text, unable to write a coherent reply saying that that was too much, that Bruce shouldn't bother with that. Giving up, he decided on:

_Thank you for the flowers._

Placing his phone screen-side down, sound off, he was finally able to focus on work. When he next checked his phone, an hour and a half later, he saw Bruce's reply, timestamped within a minute of his last message.

_Any time._

* * *

On Monday, Clark volunteered to write a piece on the Gotham Girls' junior soccer league. Perry looked at him skeptically over his glasses.

'Will you actually do the sports piece this time?' It had been years, and the editor still gave him grief. 'Why are you wanting to go to Gotham?'

'I've got a dinner planned with someone there.' He saw both Lois and Jimmy glance over at him. 'I promise you'll have the piece first thing tomorrow. When's the interview?'

The interview was at 4 o'clock, which gave him most of the day working on other pieces, confirming leads and double-checking sources. It also gave him most of the day to stare at the elevators, wondering if Bruce was actually sending him something. It was excessive, it was not necessary, and it was very, _very_ nice. In case Bruce's promise had been unfounded, or in case he was joking, Clark was wearing one of his slightly nicer jackets, a dark blue that contrasted with his jeans – as much as denim and another blue could contrast. (Still, he didn't think that the Ritz would let him in wearing _jeans_ , no matter with whom he was having dinner.)

At 2.50, when Clark was packing up his things to catch the 3.10 ferry to Gotham, a delivery man peeked his head through the door.

'I've got a delivery for a Clark Kent?'

Several fingers pointed him to Clark's desk, and he accepted the sturdy box. Although he knew he was running short on time, he cleared off a section of his desk to open the package. The box had a block monogram printed on the top, but he didn't recognise it. Bruce’s personal tailor, he assumed. He exhaled through his nose when he saw the suit.

It was understated, elegant, and somehow, at the very same time, incredibly loud. He held up the jacket in front of himself. Unlike the clothes Clark would choose himself, this one was well-cut and wouldn't hide his broad shoulders or strong arms. It was made to accentuate his best physical aspects. Clark knew he was attractive, but he didn't like to _show_ it. Being noticeable would lead to being noticed. Being noticed would lead to being revealed. Being revealed would lead to being reviled. He had never dared to risk it.

But that was all Bruce did. Bruce Wayne was a peacock in the way he preened for attention, each unbuttoned button intentional and there to be noticed. By being _so noticed_ , no one had ever connected him with Batman. His conspicuousness, in itself, was a shield. Clark sighed and folded the jacket into the box again.

He barely made the ferry, hurrying with his backpack and the unwieldy box over the gratings and almost-nearly tripping on the wet concrete. He was five minutes late to his interview, but the soccer coach still smiled and thanked him for taking his time to come. For the next two hours, he tried to ask the right questions and did his best to not ask any _stupid_ questions. (A nine-year-old spent five minutes trying to explain the offside rule to him. Then she sighed and told him he should clean his glasses.) The coach told him about the issues with funding, the difference a program like this made. She asked him about the box, and laughed when he explained that he had a date and would need to change. She offered him the opportunity to borrow the changing rooms.

'If it's nice enough to put in a box like that, you probably don't want to change in one of the public restrooms around here, y'know?'

So Clark Kent changed into the nicest three-piece suit he had ever worn in the changing room of a rec centre. The suit was a dark green, the inner lining a patterned silk. (Clark didn't even know there _was_ plaid-patterned silk.) It was beautiful. There were two small problems. The first: even Clark could tell that the red tie he had worn to work that morning would _not_ go with this suit. The second: the dress shirt Bruce had sent had french cuffs. Clark did not bring, nor did he _own_ , a set of cufflinks.

He perched on one of the changing room benches, sitting on his discarded shirt. Changing rooms were grimy, and he wasn't going to mess up his suit before Bruce had even seen him in it.

 _Bit of a problem._ Clark texted.

 _Do you need to cancel?_ Bruce's reply was immediate. Clark imagined Bruce sitting with his feet on the table in some important meeting, ostentatiously texting and not paying attention.

_No. Does the Ritz allow people without cufflinks or ties to dine there?_

_As if._ A moment, then another text: _Send me a photo. Let me see what we're dealing with._

It wasn't that Clark hadn't taken selfies before. He had – both as a regular man and as Superman. As Superman, he was great at it. As Clark Kent… no. Once, when he was still dating Lois and she had been off somewhere far far away, he had tried to send her a picture of himself, and her response had been less than complimentary. ( _How can someone so photogenic take such a bad photo of himself?_ she had asked when they had video chatted later that night. As with everything, she teased him fondly.) Fifteen pictures later and ten minutes of swiping between them, he sent one to Bruce and immediately shoved his phone in his pocket. After cleaning his glasses, he returned to the main area of the building. He watched the kids score goals or make touchdowns or whatever it was soccer called it. (He scrawled a reminder in his notebook to look at a glossary before handing this piece to Perry.)

'That's a really nice suit,' the soccer coach said, 'got to be hell of a date.'

'Oh, uh, yeah. I guess it is.' He shoved his hands in the suit pockets, and summoned the courage to look at his phone again. There were two separate messages:

 _Lucius says you're looking very handsome._ The idea of Bruce leaning over to the director of the board to show him a photo of his date was both humiliating and oddly flattering.

 _I'll bring you something. Stay by the concierge’s desk until I get there_. 

The soccer training wrapped up close to seven, and Clark offered to help clean up. The coach and the teenage volunteers looked him up and down and told him that there really, _really_ was no need to. He folded up his clothes and shoved them in his backpack. A backpack was probably the wrong thing, again, to take to an exclusive restaurant in a pay-through-your-nose hotel, but maybe he could pass it off as something eccentric. Bruce Wayne was a confirmed eccentric. Maybe his date could be, too?

In the end, he caught a taxi. He had planned to walk, but the storm clouds of Gotham were particularly dense and threatening tonight. Not for the first time, Clark wondered what percentage of the population suffered from seasonal affective disorder. The lack of sun was making him feel antsy. He couldn't imagine living here.

The concierge at the Ritz front desk threw him a dirty look when she saw his backpack, but was mollified when he mentioned that he was meeting Bruce Wayne.

'You will need a tie, sir.'

'I know. Mr Wayne's bringing me one.' Clark touched his collar, trying to quell the embarrassment he felt. He should have brought a second tie. He should have considered that Bruce would have sent a shirt and that the shirt would be impossibly nice and require bloody cufflinks.

'Speak of the devil, and he appears.' 

'Mr Wayne, good to see you again. Will you be reserving a room tonight, or is it just dinner?' The concierge had seemingly decided that Clark was not worth talking to. Bruce's smile was slanted and wicked.

'Well, sugar, that depends on how well the dinner goes, doesn't it? Let's stick with our dinner reservation for now. Don't want to put our cart before the horse, eh?' He winked at the concierge, and turned his attention to Clark. His gaze was searching. Clark shifted a little, just slightly uncomfortable with the intensity of his eyes. They had seen each other since their last date, but that had been as Batman and Superman. Clark had almost forgotten just how intense Bruce could be, even without his cowl or Kevlar. 'Right. How about a Balthus?'

'A what-whos?'

'It's a tie knot. Don't be pedestrian.'

Bruce slipped a paisley tie around Clark's neck and got to work. He worked quickly and confidently, looping and crossing and twisting. Once or twice, his fingers brushed against Clark's skin. Clark bit the inside of his cheek. Watching Bruce's hands work the tie around his own neck felt too personal, too intimate, so he watched Bruce's face instead. In a way, it was worse. His eyebrows were just slightly pinched in concentration, his eyes firmly fixed to the tie. He was clean-shaven, his face looking younger without the stubble. His black suit made the silver of his temples shine. Again, Clark was struck by what a handsome man he was. Again, he reminded himself that that thought had no place in his mind.

Bruce finished the tie, tucking it under Clark's waistcoat (the fingers brushing against Clark's dress shirt were warm and he knew his heart was beating far too fast, and he hoped Bruce couldn't feel it). He patted his cheek, a flash of a leonine smile on his face. Condescension had never been this attractive.

'Got you fixed up, kid. Now, the cufflinks.' Bruce pulled a small box from an inner pocket, and popped it open. Inside, a pair of golden cufflinks, glinting in the light of the chandelier. 'Do you know how to put on cufflinks, or do you need a hand with that, too?'

'I know how to put on cufflinks.'

Clark shrugged out of his suit jacket. He struggled with the first cufflink, and felt Bruce appraise him, from his scuffed Oxfords to his newly-perfect tie knot. He heard Bruce's heart, slow and loud in his ears. The cufflinks were less ostentatious than Clark had expected, plain gold discs. Still, he wasn’t getting it right. After a couple of minutes, Bruce sighed. Loudly. Obnoxiously.

'Honey, let me.' In a moment, Bruce had taken the cufflink from Clark and quickly re-folded the cuff, inserted the cufflink and smoothed it down. 'Look. It's easy.'

'Maybe if you've been doing it since you were ten.'

Clark held his breath as Bruce did the other cuff, his hands brushing against the hot pulse of his wrist.

'Please. I started at five.' Bruce leered and he offered him the suit jacket back. 'Ms Concierge, would you mind keeping an eye on my friend's – ah – backpack for him? I don't want it ruining my view.'

'Of course, Mr Wayne.'

'Bless you.'

Clark couldn't see the denomination of the crisp bill Bruce threw at the concierge. He was too distracted by Bruce's hand, firmly placed in the small of his back, leading him to dinner. Compared to his Kryptonian biology, humans ran colder, but Bruce's palm was like fire against his body. He was dimly aware of a maître d' leading them to a table, of Bruce pulling out a chair for him, of Bruce sitting opposite him and the damn fire of his damn touch finally abating.

After ordering for them both, Bruce propped his elbow on the table, his chin again resting on the heel of his hand. He stared at Clark for a second before speaking.

'There's a small chance there are photographers out tonight.' A moment's pause. 'There's some music sensation playing the Gotham arena, so maybe not. But there's a risk. And just in case, I should warn you.'

'Oh.' said Clark. 'Should I be worried?'

'There'll be pictures sooner or later, but maybe we should be the ones to decide when to announce it.' Bruce thanked the waiter who brought them bread. He tore a chunk off the pillowy loaf and dipped it in the oil. He chewed as he considered Clark. 'There's a gala in two and a half weeks. The 26th. It's about libraries. You should come.'

'Libraries? Is it at Lex Luthor's house?' Clark remembered the first time they met, _really_ met, at the charity event at the Luther residence. That day, Bruce had told him in the dismissive tone of a bored billionaire that he was _in favour of books._

'God, no. What a gaudy affair. Terrible house.' Their conversation was paused again by a sommelier bringing them wine. Once Bruce had tasted it, swirling the wine in the large glass and watching the legs of the wine run down the glass for a moment, he nodded and the sommelier poured them each a glass. 'No, this is at Gotham city hall. The new main library is opening the last of the month, and construction costs were higher than anticipated. The board is hoping for a little more jangle in their pockets. Try the wine. It's good.'

Clark was pretty sure _good_ was Bruce Wayne code for _expensive_ , but he was right. It was good, almost pungent. It tasted like coffee grounds and dirt, but somehow in a good way. Still, Clark didn't care for how it coated his tongue and made his mouth feel parched.

'It's the tannins,' Bruce said as though Clark had said his last thought out loud. 'It'll open up once we get the steak. That said… let me get us something for the scallops.'

A moment later, he managed to wave down a waiter from across the room, and asked for two glasses of champagne.

'Non-vintage is fine. It's a weeknight, after all.' He raised his eyebrows at the waiter as though ordering any kind of champagne was a reasonable thing to do on a Monday, before turning back to Clark. 'What I'm saying is that it's better if we control the narrative. Not let the media force our hand. Let's go public at the gala. We'll get you a better suit and I'll keep my hands off you until then.'

 _I'll keep my hands off you until then_. If Clark could take a picture of this moment, he would save the look in Bruce's eye when he said those words because even though it was all pretend, even though he knew it wasn't real, there was something oh-so-hungry in his eyes. Something dangerous. Something Clark wanted to see more of. He knew he never would. Not the real thing.

'What do you mean, a better suit? This one has to be more than my rent.'

Bruce looked him over again. Wasn't he bored of looking at Clark yet?

'Twice your rent, if Metropolis property values are what they were when I last bought a building there. And it doesn't fit you right. It's just a little tight in your shoulders, and a little too wide in your waist. I got your measurements wrong. Let's do lunch and go by my tailor later this week. Friday. You should also call your mother.'

'My mother?'

'I don't have much experience of adults dealing with their parents, but I would assume most people want to tell their parents about a relationship before it's plastered in the news. Particularly if it's her straight son connected with another man.' Bruce glanced up from the bread he was tearing apart, bit by bit, and met Clark's eye again. Clark opened his mouth to correct him, to say _I never said I was straight,_ but the words got stuck in his throat. 'I know Kansas is the middle of nowhere, but even they can access Buzzfeed.'

Clark toyed with his piece of bread. He chewed it thoughtfully. There was something odd about a place like the Ritz serving complimentary bread. Maybe it wasn't complimentary. Maybe it was baked into that complex order Bruce rattled off, or maybe he just came often enough that they knew he would order it, so they served it without asking. Clark wondered who Bruce came here with. He wondered if he had any justification for the stab of jealousy that seared through his stomach.

'I'm going to tell her the truth.'

'Of course.'

The champagne and scallops arrived. Clark could count on one hand the number of times he had eaten scallops, and each time the scallops had been overcooked. These, however, were sublime, all butter and melting on his tongue. The effervescence of the champagne brightened the flavours, the – Bruce would know the right word for it. Clark sure didn't. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing only on the fantastic balance of flavours. When he opened his eyes, Bruce was still watching him.

'Jimmy knows. That we're dating, I mean.'

'He's that photographer, right?' Bruce pressed a napkin against the corner of his mouth, and Clark stared into his lap.

'Yes. He saw the flowers. I asked him to keep quiet. For now, at least.'

Clark recognised the curl of the mouth, that Bruce was sitting on some comment that would be unfair, mean, and hitting very close to home. He had another scallop and his face smoothed.

'I think that's enough shop talk.' Bruce waved his hand, as though to push the topics away. 'Bu speaking of people you should tell – Perry White. We don't want your _integrity_ to be compromised.'

Bruce was right. Of course he was.

The rest of the night, they talked about nothing at all while eating the best food Clark had ever eaten. Bruce was right about the wine, too, how the tannins blossomed when paired with the steak. It was a lovely meal. Looking at it objectively, Clark knew it was as perfect a date as one could ever have with Bruce Wayne. Still, Clark felt guilty for enjoying it as much as he did. When Bruce told a dirty joke, apropos some story Clark told, his flush was real and his stammering responses to Bruce's innuendo (murmured, not spoken) couldn't be faked. Bruce was doing this to pass through the motions, getting enough dates under his belts before an engagement, before a wedding, before the piece of paper that was the goal. But maybe, Clark told himself, maybe Bruce also enjoyed himself. Not like Clark did, whose crush was blooming into something worse with each twinkle of Bruce's eye. But maybe this was some kind of relief from Bruce. With everything bad that had happened to him, he deserved one nice thing.

(Clark didn't know if he was selfish for thinking he could be a nice thing.)

When they had finished dinner, it was almost midnight. Clark wanted to ask Bruce if he regretted not going out on patrol tonight. Clark knew he wasn't wearing his earpiece. It had taken him at least an hour to figure it out, but there was a kind of _silence_ around Bruce. All at once, he had realised that the difference was the lack of static from the connection with the Batcave. He wanted to ask if Bruce had taken it out to focus solely on Clark, or if it was to spare Alfred from having to listen to his heavy-handed flirting.

'The last train's leaving in twenty minutes. I should probably leave.'

Bruce glanced up at him from where he was signing the bill, tapping his fingers as he figured out the tip. (It was endearing that even Bruce Wayne needed time to calculate a tip.)

'Let me drive you to the station. I don't want you walking alone at night.'

Clark wanted to protest, to point out that he could take care of himself. He was _Superman_ , and no one needed to protect him. But, no. Tonight, he wasn't Superman. He wasn't even wearing the suit. Without meaning to, he had tuned out the rest of the world, his entire attention focused on Bruce. Again, the stab of guilt – this time for not being more attentive, for not being more selfless. He gradually tuned back the cacophony of planet Earth, and exhaled in relief when he could tell that nothing apocalyptic had happened. No natural disasters. No political unrest that he could do anything about. No fights that he should've broken up.

'I'd appreciate that.'

Bruce's hand was on his back again as they left the restaurant and picked up Clark's backpack. This time, his fingers splayed between his shoulder blades. Clark wondered if Bruce could hear his heartbeat. Bruce's own heart was loud in his ears.

'I know I said I was going to keep my hands off you,' Bruce murmured as he opened the passenger door for Clark, 'but there are appearances to think of.'

'That's okay.'

It was a different car from last time, but this one, too, was sleek, black, and luxurious. For a second, he wondered if Bruce even should be driving. They had had wine with dinner, but – when he thought back on it, Bruce's pours to Clark's glass were much heavier than his own. They had been dining for hours, and they didn’t move past the glass each of champagne and the shared bottle of red. He didn't know the legal limit in Gotham, but he was sure Bruce would be fine.

'The valets must think I'm getting shy in my old age,' Bruce was focused on the road, his fingers tapping the leather steering wheel as he waited for a red light to turn. 'By all rights, I should have you in my back seat after that date.'

Clark made an involuntary sound. It was a _mhm_ that was a little like a cough, a little like a whimper, a little like a whine. He stared at the road, happy to see the crowning arches of Gotham Central Station only a block away.

Bruce parked and turned to Clark. His left hand was still crouched over the steering wheel, and his right oh-so-briefly brushed over the back of Clark's hand. The touch was electric and Clark jumped in his seat. Something flashed behind Bruce's face when their eyes met.

'I'm sorry.' An apology from Bruce Wayne was like a four-leaf clover. 'I don't mean to make you uncomfortable.'

'It's – it's fine. I know why you're doing it.' Clark clenched his fist in the fabric of his suit pants. He stared at the mahogany glove compartment. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce's grip tighten around the gear lever. 'It's just strange to see you like this.'

'Most people who go out with Bruce Wayne never know me.' It was a quiet confession. 'And none of them have ever known _all_ of me. It's a strange situation. So please tell me if I overstep. I don't want to make things difficult for you. If I ever do – will you tell me?'

Clark nodded, somehow not trusting himself to speak. A sharp _click_ told him Bruce had unlocked the door.

'You've got seven minutes to catch your train.' Clark glanced up at him. 'Don't miss it.'

He had expected Bruce to leave as soon as he left the car. But the car was there, idling, as the seconds ticked by. He turned around, and Bruce must have known that he would turn. The passenger seat window was already down.

'Thank you for tonight.' Clark said, leaning down and resting a hand against the roof of the car. The smile that Bruce gave him was not a smile of Bruce Wayne's, playful and lazy. It was tired and short. It was all Bruce.

'Thank _you_. Let me know when you get home.'

'I will.'

With a two-finger wave, Bruce drove off. Clark watched the car leave. He made it onto the train with two minutes to spare.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have a fight with your fake boyfriend and your date gets interrupted by family feelings, and that’s just how it goes.

Clark knew he should call his mother, and he knew he should talk to Perry. But surely, he told himself, surely it could wait a little? So on Tuesday, instead of handing in his finished piece on girls' soccer in Gotham, he asked Perry if maybe he could broaden the scope of the piece. He told Perry about the funding issues the coach had told him about, how he wanted to investigate whether this was a systematic lack of funding. Did the boys' clubs have the same problem? He talked about institutional misogyny. He brought up that he could look into the clubs in Metropolis, too, comparing if the same problems could be found in both cities. He could spend most of the week in Metropolis, comparing records and getting quotes, and head back to Gotham on Friday, getting some more in-person time with the relevant parties. (Clark did _not_ mention his selfish reasons for wanting to go to Gotham, about the fitting for the suit, about the lunch. He didn't mention Bruce.)

Perry sighed.

'Kent, all I wanted was a fluff piece about some girls getting the opportunity to do something recreational. But sure, run with it.'

'Thank you. You won't regret this.'

'Bet I will.' Perry muttered.

So Clark worked the girls sports team story (turned out that soccer _did_ score goals, not touchdowns). Jimmy asked for details about his date and Clark fed him morsels. It was very nice. No, they didn't kiss. Yes, Bruce Wayne's cars are fantastic. No, holy hell, Jimmy, they _hadn't even kissed_. Clark had lunch with Lois. They didn't talk about Bruce. They talked about his story, and they talked about her story, and they very much did not talk about Bruce.

And Superman flew the world, and he saved children, buildings, animals. The Justice League met, and Batman wished him both _hello_ and _good night._ Once he had left, Diana remarked that he was being surprisingly chatty.

On Wednesday night, Bruce sent him an itinerary. Lunch, then tailor. _Bring the suit._ Two seconds later, he added: _Your green one that does nice things to your eyes_. 

And Clark didn't call mom.

* * *

It didn't feel right not to wear his Superman suit, but Clark understood why he shouldn't. Bruce hadn't said it in so many words, but if he was meant to be prodded and poked by a tailor, wearing the clothes of his secret identity wasn't a good idea. He went to Gotham first thing in the morning, jostling through the platform bustling with commuters. With his backpack and the garment bag slung over his shoulder, he knew he was taking up too much space, and he heard more than one financial type mutter curses about him. He spent the morning in the city archives, poring over the grants awarded to the recreational sports teams. He read through their financial reports, reviewing the summaries of income and expenditure. Everything backed up the arguments he was building. Then he turned to the last page of the boys' soccer club, and he read through the list of sponsors. At the very top, he read four familiar words: _The Thomas Wayne Foundation_.

With that name, he knew the story was dead. Clark collected the materials, doing his best to get it back to the archival order in which he had been handed it, and he thanked the office assistant so much, and he apologised for wasting his time. He couldn't justify his frustration with Bruce, but it simmered deep in his stomach.

Twenty minutes later, he was holding two cups of coffee and arguing with Bruce Wayne's secretary. He had made it up to here with his press ID, but no further.

'If you don't have an appointment, you can't see Mr Wayne.' She told him for the third time.

'Yes, but I know him, and I'm just bringing him _coffee_.' Clark retorted, also for the third time. 'Okay, I'll text him.'

He slammed the coffees onto the desk a little harder than he should have, and sent Bruce a message. _Your receptionist won't let me in_.

The secretary's phone rang.

'I hear there's someone wanting to see me?'

She had the receiver pressed to her ear, but Clark could still hear Bruce's fainéant tone.

'Yes, Mr Wayne, but he doesn't have an appointment, so as per your –'

'Tall, handsome, hopeless glasses?' Bruce interrupted her. 'Let him in. I was hoping for some entertainment, anyway.'

The secretary sighed when she replaced the receiver.

'You can go in.'

Bruce's feet were on his desk, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his tie undone. His suit jacket was thrown over the chair in front of the desk. Clark dumped himself onto the sofa, draping the suit next to himself. The sofa creaked under his weight.

'Hopeless glasses, huh?'

'So you _were_ listening.' Bruce almost smiled. 'It's only eleven. Why are you here early?'

'My story's dead.' Clark knew he was being ridiculous, that he should not be this mad. This wasn't the first story he had to give up on. It definitely wouldn't be the last one. It was, however, the first time it was his own fault the story had to be killed.

'And what story is that?' Bruce took a sip of the coffee Clark had left on his desk. 'Clark, this coffee is terrible.' 

He took another sip.

'It's about sports. Metropolis and Gotham kids' opportunity to do something recreational. Boys getting more opportunities than girls.'

'And this story has to die why?' Bruce seemed to only half-pay attention, leafing through a document with a highlighter ready to annotate. Clark glowered at him, and realised that he was wearing reading glasses. They were perched low on his nose, and he didn't look through them when he glanced up at Clark, but he pushed them up just slightly when he kept reading. Clark had not known that Bruce _needed_ glasses. (They were, he had to admit, a lot nicer than Clark's own glasses.)

'Because you insist on giving money to charity.'

'Ah.' Bruce pulled off his glasses, folding them up and leaving them as a bookmark in the file he was working on. He stood up, walked around his desk, and leaned against its corner, facing Clark. 'And Perry found out so now there's a conflict of interest.'

'No, Perry didn't find out. I didn't tell Perry yet.' Clark rubbed his eyes.

'I _told_ you to tell Perry.' 

'You're not my _dad_ . I don't need some god-damned keeper.' Clark spat. 'I'm not a kid; you don't need to act like I'm some kind of idiot who needs to be told how to do things to get them right. This is _my_ life, this is what _I_ do. I'm trying to make a damn difference and I don't appreciate you or your _fucking_ money making me look like a fool for trying to do things and somehow, despite all this, not being able to even get the smallest god-damned thing right.'

Bruce listened to his tirade, his face impassive.

'Are you quite finished?' he asked when Clark grew quiet. Bruce's fingers were wrapped around the edge of the desk, and his knuckles were white from the pressure. Clark nodded. 'Get up.'

At that moment, Bruce was Batman in everything but appearance. Clark couldn't help but obey. Bruce walked over to him, crowding his space. There were maybe three inches between them. Clark tipped his head up to meet his eye. (In that moment, Clark hated that Bruce had a few inches on him.)

'Listen here, Kent. I'm not trying to make you look stupid. I don't get off on trying to get you to feel like an idiot. What I'm trying to do is help you look out for yourself. If you don't want to do _this_ ,' and at _this_ Bruce moved oh-so-close, their noses touching for a split-second, 'you don't fucking _have to_. If you want to write your silly little stories that won't make a difference because no one with the power to change things _cares_ , then be my guest. We can call this off. We can pretend nothing ever happened and the only clean-up you'll have to do is make up some story for Jimmy and tell Lois that she was right the entire time. I'm not making you do anything. _You_ are making decisions, and if you think those are making you look like an idiot, it's up to you to change your mind.' Bruce paused, his eyes roaming over Clark's face. 'I wasn't aware there was a girls' league. And I didn't not give them money to spite you.'

'I didn't say that.' Clark murmured. 

'I'll do some reshuffling.' Bruce said. He didn't sound mad anymore. He didn't sound like Batman. Their faces were still so close. Clark could almost _feel_ his heart, the pulse reverberating through his skin, settling into a steady rhythm after the rush of adrenaline. 'But you have to decide. Either we call this quits, or you call Perry.'

'Okay.'

Clark backed, tumbling back into the sofa. He kept his eyes trained on Bruce as he pulled his phone out, only briefly looking away to find Perry's number and calling. Clark placed the phone on the sofa table, tapping the screen to turn on the speaker phone.

'Kent?'

'Hey, Perry. I, uh. The sports story's dead. There's, uh. A conflict of interest.'

'Jesus, Kent. What's the conflict – your being allergic to actually turning in an assignment on time?'

'No, um.' Clark ran a hand through his hand. Bruce was still standing, arms crossed, watching him. 'I was looking over the donors and sponsors of the clubs, and, um. I guess I'm involved with someone who's giving money to one of the boys' clubs. So I can't do this story.'

'Who are you involved with that gives money to kids' sports clubs?'

'Uh. I'm kind of – uh – I'm dating Bruce Wayne.'

In the silence when Perry was probably trying to wrap his mind around the concept presented to him, Clark heard Bruce exhale. Glancing up at him, he received a nod and an almost-smile. He returned to his desk, recovering his reading glasses and continuing his work. He took a sip of the awful coffee Clark had brought him.

'I'm sorry, Clark, I might be going deaf or maybe I had a brief moment of insanity, but did you just say you are dating _Bruce Wayne_?'

'Yes, sir.'

'This is the billionaire, girls-on-his-arm Bruce Wayne? The owning-the-Daily-Planet Bruce Wayne? _That_ Bruce Wayne?'

Clark winced. Bruce chuckled.

'Yes, that Bruce Wayne.'

'How long has this been going on? You had that piece about Moil Engineering last month, and that's a Wayne subsidiary. We can't put ourselves at risk of accusations of playing favourites, Clark.'

'No, there was nothing going on at that point, I wouldn't have –'

'Perry, Bruce here.' Bruce had circled back to the sofa, moving Clark's suit out of the way and perching on the edge of the sofa cushion. He was carrying both their coffees. Bruce handed Clark his still-full drink as he kept speaking. 'Clark, do you mind if I butt in?'

'No, that's fine.' Clark hid behind his coffee. Bruce was right. The coffee was terrible.

'Am I on speakerphone?' Perry asked.

'Yes, Perry. I asked Clark to let me be there when he called you.' Bruce licked his lips. 'Remember a couple of weeks ago when I had you run me through the current numbers? That was when I asked Clark out. He hasn't written anything related to me or my work since then. He wasn't aware of the ins-and-outs of Wayne Enterprises' charities' donation schedule, and as soon as he found out, he pulled the breaks and let you know. Clark hasn't done anything wrong here. I would also like to remind you that I am a majority owner of Daily Planet. Although I agree that Clark shouldn't write about anything associated with Wayne Enterprises, the entire paper _should be_ scrutinised for how it portrays me and my business dealings. If I remember correctly, didn't Toby Raynes write a rather scathing article about my association with your paper when the sale was finalised?'

Clark didn't often get to see this part of Bruce. This Bruce was just as cunning as Batman, and just as charming as Bruce Wayne, but without either darkness or glibness.

Perry sighed.

'You're right, Mr Wayne.'

'Clark should sign something, certainly. I'll have to talk to my lawyers, but I expect I do, too. I apologise for inadvertently wasting Clark's work time in this way. Perhaps this research could be handed over to another reporter? Not Lois Lane, for obvious reasons. I'm sure you see my point.'

Again, Perry sighed.

'Send over what you've got this far, Clark. I'll look it over and if it looks like it's got legs, I'll see who I can hand it over to. You don't have to do it today, just – first thing Monday. And take the rest of the day off.'

'I'll send it over, of course. Thank you. I'm sorry, uh, for not being more forthcoming.'

'Yes, Mr White, thank you very much.' Bruce had moved into his most charming voice, dripping with velvet. 'And if you could – mum's the word.'

'Of course. Kent, you're on obituaries next week.'

Perry hung up. They sat in silence for a moment. Bruce cocked his head and leaned back into the sofa. He finished his coffee.

'I think that went pretty well.'

'I'm sorry,' Clark chewed his lip and stared at the coffee cup in his hand. 'I shouldn't have lashed out at you.'

'I can handle your words, Clark. We've had worse.'

(Clark, momentarily back in the moment where Batman's mouth curled with hatred, and his fists and his boots and – Clark, shaking his head to brush the memory away.)

Bruce was up and moving: buttoning his waistcoat; re-doing his tie; closing his laptop.

'We're still a little early, but I see no reason not to do lunch now, and then follow it up with Giuseppi's. Are you hungry?'

The restaurant they went to was almost cheap enough that Clark would just about have considered going there on his own. Bruce let Clark order first, and mirrored his order of a French dip sandwich. They chatted leisurely as they waited for their food. Bruce got Clark to explain why he was put on obituaries – a task that required huddling up in the archives, finding choice quotes from decades ago, verifying marital statuses and number of children – and why it was considered the worst thing Perry could do to a talented reporter (Bruce's words, not his). Clark teased Bruce for his reading glasses. The sandwiches were excellent, even though they both made a mess of it. Bruce advised Clark before they started eating to unbutton his shirt sleeves. It turned out to be a good decision when the broth dripped down their fingers and past their wrists.

A car waited for them after lunch. Clark was surprised to see Alfred in the driver's seat, but followed Bruce into the backseat.

'Good afternoon, Mr Kent.' Alfred met his eye in the rearview mirror before he pulled out of the parking spot.

'Clark, please.' Alfred's formality made Clark feel embarrassed, as with so much of Bruce's riches. 'How are you, Alfred?'

'I am well, thank you. And yourself? Master Wayne running you ragged?'

'Uh, I'm just fine.' Clark stuttered as Bruce chuckled. Clark was sure Alfred didn't intend the innuendo of the question. 'Thank you for driving.'

'It's part of the job, Mr Kent. Master Bruce, young Dick called a little while ago. He was wondering about your lunch.'

'Alfred, that's not until – oh.' Bruce was looking at his watch. 'That's today.'

'Quite,' Alfred murmured.

'You stood up Dick to have lunch with me?'

'No, Clark. Obviously I didn't do that intentionally. I – oh, shut up everyone.' Bruce's phone was already against his ear, and Clark could hear the ringing. He focused and quelled his hearing. This was a private phone call. 'Hey, Dick. Alfred just told me that – no, I – Dick, will you let me – fine. Talk.'

Bruce rested his forehead against the car window and listened. Despite trying so hard not to listen, Clark caught snatches: _ask very little_ – _once every couple of months really isn't too much of a commitment – cancelling's fine but – fucking hell, Bruce, what do you fucking want from me_.

'Dick. Can I talk? Are you quite finished?' That was the same thing Bruce had said to Clark. 'I've already had one argument with someone I actually like today, I'd prefer not to make it two. What? Clark. ... Yes, him. It's none of your business what we were fighting about, Dick. I am sorry for missing our lunch. I double-booked myself because I don't keep our lunch in the calendar. I thought it was next week. Could you still come into Gotham? There's something I'd like to talk to you about –' and he glanced over at Clark, as though to make sure that he was still there, 'and I'd prefer to do it in person. … No, I know you're in Blüdhaven. But I'd like to see you. We're going to Giuseppe's. … no, we're getting a suit for Clark. … if you come, I'll fucking explain, won't I, Dick? Please. Robin, please.'

They had arrived, and Alfred had parked in front of the tailor's. The butler had put the car in park and was polishing his glasses. Now and then, he would glance up in the rearview mirror. Bruce had his forehead pressed against his palm, eyes closed. Clark watched him, uncertain what he could do. What he _should_ do. Finally, Bruce straightened.

'Yes. Fine. We'll be here until at least two o'clock. I'll blow off the rest of my meetings today. Thank you, Dick.' Bruce exhaled and when he turned to smile at Clark, his face had changed into a mask. 'Ready, Clark? Alfred, feel free to go and do something else. I'll call you when we're done.'

'Of course, Master Bruce.'

Bruce's fingers were on the door handle of the shop when Clark paused.

'Stop. Did you do that intentionally?'

'Did I do what intentionally?' Bruce turned and shifted his stance. He was preparing for another fight. Hands in pockets, mouth thin. 'Ignore lunch with my son to spend time with you? It was not intentional, so please don't flatter yourself.'

'Not that.' Clark shook his head. He heard the starting of a car engine, and was happy Alfred was driving away. 'I don't care about that. I don't think you'd do _that_ on purpose. The other thing. You called him Robin.'

'No, I didn't. I wouldn't do that.' But even as he said it, Bruce frowned and ran a frustrated hand through his hand. 'Fuck.'

'For what it's worth,' Clark said, and he reached out a hand to brush his fingers against Bruce's sleeve, as though that could ever mean something, 'it seemed to be what made him agree to come over.'

'It shouldn't be.' Bruce sighed. 'Well, I'll deal with that when I get to it. Let's get you into something presentable.'

The moment he put his hand on the door handle, he had turned back into Bruce Wayne. He greeted the man at the counter – a man called Vincent, apparently, and whom it sounded like Bruce had known for years – and he carried on with an easy pattering of small talk while he allowed Clark a moment to look around the store. Like every single place Bruce had taken him to the last two weeks, it was beautiful. At this point, it shouldn't surprise him.

'So, Vinny,' Bruce said, leaning heavily against the counter on both forearms, 'my _friend_ here is needed to get fixed up with a new suit. We're going out. Giuseppe said he had some time to squeeze him in.'

Clark couldn't say for sure that Bruce had winked when he had said _friend_ , but he couldn't rule it out.

'You're on the books, sir. He's waiting for both of you, second door to the right. What's your name, sir?' The question was addressed to Clark.

'Oh! I'm Clark Kent, sorry. Of the Daily Planet.'

'I don't think he cares about where you work, Kansas,' Bruce said sweetly as he placed a hand on his back – not the small of his back, not between his shoulder blades, somewhere right in the middle, a spot in which Clark wasn't expected to be touched, and couldn't quite tell how to feel about it. Bruce led them down the hallway, opening the door.

Although it was probably an unkind thought, Giuseppi looked just like what Clark had always imagined an Italian tailor would look like. His sleeves were carelessly pushed up, several bands of tape measure hanging around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. He approached Bruce with his hands outstretched.

'Mr Wayne, always such a pleasure. But we're not here for you today, are we?' Giuseppe turned to Clark, and he looked him over. What he had decided about Clark's personal inability to dress well in the three seconds he took before he spoke again, Clark did not want to know. 'What's your name, son?'

'I'm Clark Kent. It's very nice to meet you.'

The tailor's handshake was firm, but neither kind nor unkind.

'Nice to meet you, Mr Kent. Now, get undressed.'

'What?'

'You heard the man.' Bruce was slouching in an armchair in a corner, lounging like some master detective in a murder mystery about to explain who had actually committed the crime. 'How else is he going to get your measurements right?'

'Underwear and undershirt is fine,' Giuseppe said. He had turned around, flipping through a notebook. Finding a blank page, he swiveled and addressed Bruce. 'What is it we're making today?'

'We're going to a gala in two weeks. It's black tie, so. What do you think? A tux, or maybe a dinner jacket? What do you think – black or midnight blue?'

Clark was certain the question was not addressed to him.

'I think you, Mr Wayne, would prefer the dinner suit.'

Clark turned, just enough to see Bruce. He dragged his lip through his teeth and nodded.

'You're right. The blue will bring out his pretty eyes.' Bruce had his phone up now, but his gaze was darting from Giuseppe, back to his phone, to Clark, back to his phone.

'Very well.'

Giuseppe wasn't much for talking while he worked. He would tell Clark to raise his arms, no, lower them a little, to shift his leg, to not tense his muscles like that, please. Clark would follow his instructions as best he could. He tried not to think about Bruce sitting in the corner, the way his eyes skated over Clark's half-dressed body as though he had the right. It wasn't that Bruce hadn't seen him undressed before. More than once, they had come back to a mission, uniforms filthy with dirt and alien guts, and they had both stripped without even thinking about it. This was different. Superman naked was not the same thing as Clark Kent naked. The problem was – the problem was the way Clark could feel Brue watching him when he knew he wasn't doing it as Bruce. He was playing the role of the insatiable playboy. It wasn't the Bruce that Clark – it wasn't the Bruce he knew. For all intents and purposes, it was a stranger. 

Time dragged as Giuseppe checked and double-checked his measurements. Now and then he would direct a question to Bruce, which Bruce would answer in the laissez-faire voice that grated on Clark's nerves because that wasn't _him_ . That wasn't how he spoke. That wasn't who he _was_.

Finally, the tailor stepped back.

'You have a suit that needs to be adjusted as well, right?' This was the first time he had addressed Clark directly.

'Yes, yes. I do. I brought it.'

'Go ahead.'

Clark walked over to where they had hung up the suit when they entered, right next to where Bruce was sitting.

'How are you doing?' his voice was low and trickled like syrup.

'I'm fine.' and he was a little breathless, maybe. That was fine. _He_ was fine.

As Clark was pulling on the suit pants – one leg and then the other – someone knocked on the door. Bruce snapped to attention, sudden sharpness replacing indolence. It was Giuseppe who answered the door.

'There's someone here to see Mr Wayne.'

'Let him in.' Bruce was on his feet, his fingers flexing into fists and then loosening again.

Dick Grayson stepped into the room. Clark hurried with the buttons of his dress shirt. They had met a couple of times, but never for long. Dick was younger than Clark, but he didn’t know by how much. His hair was brown, messily falling in his face. His eyes, too, were dark, slanted under the frowning brows. His dress shirt fit well but wasn't expensive; his jeans were cuffed; his tennis shoes were bright red and brilliant white. The police badge on his belt was a dull bronze. He looked so little like Bruce, and yet so much like him. If someone had said he was Bruce's biological son, Clark would have believed them. Slighter, younger, but he carried himself just like him.

The first person he seemed to see was Clark. He startled slightly.

'Clark. It's good to see you.' His hands were in his pockets. His body was tense with nervous energy. 'Do you, uh, do you mind if I borrow Bruce for a while?'

'No, that's fine. Take your time.'

He didn't know Dick. The first time they had met they had both been in uniform. Nightwing had slipped away after the battle, and although Bruce had muttered who he was, why he was there, Clark hadn't really put it all together. The second time he had removed the domino mask and flashed a dazzling smile at Clark, a smile that was all Wayne. Then Bruce, the cowl pulled off his face, had dragged him to a corner of the headquarters and spent the next ten minutes quietly yelling at him. Dick, Nightwing in every way except his face, had listened to him with his arms crossed, injecting half-derisive come-backs to each of Bruce's criticism. Dick was too reckless ( _oh, who did he learn_ that _from_ ); Dick couldn't do that ( _and yet he_ did _and he_ made it through _just fine_ ); Dick needed to be careful or else he was going to get himself killed. Dick hadn't said anything to the last comment. He had stormed off and with a rattled sigh, Bruce had excused himself and followed him.

All this to say: Clark wasn't sure what to expect.

'Dick.'

Bruce's voice was low and tired. Dick turned to Bruce, took a step, then two. Then he tipped his head against Bruce's chest and wrapped his arms around him. This didn't seem to be what Bruce had expected either, from the way his hands hovered with uncertainty before one settled on his back, the other against his hair. Dick's fists clenched the fabric of Bruce's suit jacket, rumpling the fine wool.

Then, as quickly as he had leaned into the embrace, Dick retreated. He shoved his hands in his back pockets, and bouncing on his heels. He waited for Bruce to say something for all of three seconds. He gave up.

'So you said you had a good excuse for missing lunch?'

'I said I had _an_ excuse.' Bruce matched Dick's wary carelessness, his hands in pockets ruining the line of his fine suit trousers. 'Giuseppe, do you think Clark can fend for himself? And do you have somewhere my son and I can talk in private?'

'The second fitting room should be free, unless Vincenzo had a last-minute drop-in.' Giuseppe had four sewing pins in his mouth, but spoke just fine. 'And yes, I don't think I need anything else from you.'

'Just the cheque, huh? I'll drop it off. Come on, Dick.' Before Bruce left, he addressed Clark: 'if you're ready before we're done talking, could you wait for us in the front?'

'Of course.'

Clark listened to the old plumbing of the house as the tailor hurried around him. The pipes creaked and whistled with the hot water. He couldn't help but hone in on Bruce's low voice, but he wouldn't let himself listen to the words. Even though he knew they were talking about him, he had no right to overhear. (He did hear Dick laugh, low and slow. Was that a good sign?) Then Bruce's drone again, a laughing tilt in his voice. Clark tried not to listen, but it was so hard not to hear, not to lean into Bruce's voice, not to –

'And we're done.' Giuseppe stepped away. 'Please be careful when you take it off. I don't want you to disrupt any of the pins. When was it he said your event was?'

'Oh, um. The 26th.'

'Doesn't give me a lot of time, does he?'

'Well, you know how he is. What he wants, he wants now.'

He probably imagined it, but he thought that the tailor flicked his eyes over him as Clark carefully shrugged out of the jacket.

'He definitely does.' Giuseppe muttered. 'I'll need you to come back on the 22nd for a final fitting. Both your new suit and the altered one will be done by the morning of the 26th. Give this to Wayne.'

Clark accepted the slip of paper. He assumed it was some kind of receipt, but the pencil scrawls meant nothing to him.

Bruce and Dick were sitting on a velvet-draped chaise in the front of the shop, both leaning over Dick's phone. Bruce was pointing at something, pinching fingers on the screen.

'See, if you look here, then –'

'But what about the DNA evidence?'

'Come on Dick, you know better than that, he just –' Bruce glanced up at the scuff of Clark's shoes against the floor. 'Clark! You're back. How was everything?'

'It was fine. I need to come back on the 22nd. He told me to give you this.'

Bruce accepted the note, looked it over. Whatever the scribblings were, he understood them.

'Will you give me a moment just to straighten this out? Then I’ll need to call Lucius and get out of my afternoon meetings.' With a quick pat on Clark's shoulder, Bruce made his way to the front.

'So, uh, how was the chat?' It didn't feel right to sit down next to Dick, so Clark hovered awkwardly by the chaise, leaning against the wall.

'It was _good_ . Thank you for asking. Seems like there's some news about you and dad, isn't there?' Dick winked at him, his smile slanted just like – just like how Bruce did when he was teasing Clark, when he was being unbearable just because he _could_ . 'I didn't expect that was what he meant when he said he _liked_ you. But don't worry – couldn't think of a better second dad, really.'

'That's, uh, very nice. Did you end up taking the rest of the day off?'

'Yeah. If Bruce Wayne is actually clearing his day, I'd be stupid not to do the same.' Dick got up and dug his hands into his pockets. 'Was thinking we'd go to the zoo.'

'The zoo?' Bruce was back. 'We can go to the zoo.'

'Do you wanna come with us?' Dick asked, looking from Clark to Bruce and back again.

'Uh, sure.' He felt a little weird, gate-crashing this rare time Dick got to spend with his father, but at the same time, he was being invited. And Perry _had_ told him to stop working for the day. 'If that's okay with you, Bruce?'

Bruce's jaw worked before he nodded, smiled a little.

'Of course. Dick, will you call Alfred?'

Soon, Dick had finished his call, and waited with Clark while Bruce paced along the pavement, being charming and frustrated in turn. After quoting what Clark assumed was an employee handbook ( _At Wayne Enterprises, nothing is more important than being able to take the time with family – remember that line, Lucius?_ ), Bruce hung up and made a grimace that was almost a smile. Once Alfred showed up with the car, he slipped into the front passenger seat, leaving Clark and Dick in the backseat. Dick spent the entire car ride asking Clark questions – about his job, what it was like growing up in the middle of nowhere, why he decided to move to Metropolis, why he had become a journalist, what he thought of Gotham now that he was seeing more of it. He was as insatiable for knowledge as Bruce, but didn't hide his interest. He was still chattering away when they arrived at the zoo, peppering in short anecdotes about himself while getting more and more from Clark. It was obvious that Dick was good at his job.

Bruce paid for the three of them and led the way inside. Once inside, they tried to walk together, but more often than not, Clark would slip a couple of steps behind, letting father and son walk together. They sauntered by the first few enclosures, stopping at the birds of prey. Bruce muttered facts about the birds as they watched them soar. Once the show was over and they had bought themselves ice creams – Bruce only getting a black coffee – they walked further into the zoo. Dick spoke.

'Hey, do you remember when Jason got banned from the zoo?'

It was barely noticeable, but Clark could see the shift, the tightness in Bruce's shoulders. Dick could see it, too, breathing through his nose as he stared at his father's back, judging the tiny glance he looked back at them with.

'Yes. I'll be going ahead. The aquarium. Catch up later.'

A few long steps, and he was gone. Dick shifted from one foot to another and took a bite of his ice cream.

'So he's still not talking about Jason, huh?'

'I don't think he's ever mentioned him to me, or anyone in the – ah – league.' Clark looked around, but everyone around them were busy admiring the tiger that had for once decided to leave his hut and roam its enclosed space. No one was listening to them. Clark only knew the vague outlines of Jason: he knew that Bruce had taken him in; he knew that he was dead; he knew that the Joker had killed him; he knew that the death had been covered up with a crashed car and a closed casket.

Dick sighed, another long exhale.

'Figures. I'm not surprised.'

Clark didn't know if he should ask. Would it help? Would Dick want to talk about this? Who would want to talk about his brother's death with a man who had come back from the dead? He glanced at him, taking in the set of his jaw (so like Bruce), the silent tear (so unlike him). They continued walking, slowly heading towards the aquarium. Clark stayed silent, and minutes passed before Dick spoke again.

'He climbed into the meerkat area. That's why he was banned.' His voice was hoarse. Clark waited. 'I think Bruce tried to give a ridiculous donation for them to revert it, but I guess money _can't_ buy you everything. Jason loved coming here. We would go every few weeks. Jason just running around, just – being a kid. Getting to be a kid. I always thought I was too old for it, then, but now – I come here quite a lot, these days.'

Dick fell quiet again. The last of their ice creams had melted over their hands, and Clark accepted the wipe Dick offered him. The polar bear in front of them was sleeping. Children were chattering in hushed tones, scared to wake the animal. Mothers and fathers were lifting them up so they could get a better view. (Clark wondered if Bruce had done that for his sons. He wondered if Bruce's parents had done that for him.)

'Do you know what kills me?'

'What?' Clark felt bad for not being more eloquent, for not knowing what to say. He was a journalist. He was Superman. He should know how to deal with this.

'He didn't even take the mask off. He beat him to a pulp, and he left him for dead, and he didn't even care enough to see the face of the child he was killing.' Dick's nails were pressing into his upper arms, wrapped around himself. Clark reached out, almost-brushed his fingers against Dick’s shirt (trying to say with the touch: _don't do that, don't hurt yourself_ ). Dick let his arms fall and his hands close in fists. 'And Bruce was too late.'

'I'm sorry.' Clark swallowed. 'I know that doesn't help, and I know that doesn't fix anything. It’s no good. But I truly, truly, am so sorry.'

Dick pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. He turned and tried a smile at Clark.

' _I'm_ sorry. We've met, like, twice and I'm crying about my dead brother – and to make it worse by doing this I have chased away my father who is also your boyfriend. I'm clearly in the wrong here. Let's find Bruce.' His tone was too light, too dismissive of his own pain. Clark didn't feel he knew him well enough to push it.

'I – you're fine. And, uh, he did tell you everything, right?'

'Hmm?'

They were weaving through the crowds, heading towards the gaudy blue building. A cartoon whale sat atop the roof, and the banner beneath read: _Gotham Aquarium: a WHALE of a time!_

'It's not real. I mean, it's not a real relationship. He _did_ tell you that, right?'

'I thought you had super hearing. Didn't you listen in? Suit fittings are boring, so I kind of assumed you would.'

'That's – that's not polite. I wouldn't do that.'

'So kind and thoughtful. Really not Bruce's type, huh? Well, I guess in some ways–’ Dick interrupted himself when they entered and they saw Bruce again. He was standing by the stingrays, watching them dance in the water.

'What do you mean?' Clark asked, slowing his step to give them another moment before Bruce was within hearing range.

'Uh – another time, maybe.' Dick looked from Bruce over to Clark, biting his lip. 'It's not really my place. But yeah, he told me the details. It's a fucking stupid plan, but I guess it'll work.'

Bruce didn't react when he heard them approach. Dick tapped his upper arm, once, then twice, and sidled up against Bruce when he lifted it. Bruce wrapped his arm around Dick's shoulders, and they watched the rays together. Clark watched them: Dick several inches shorter, his head half-leaning against Bruce's chest; Bruce's chin resting on the top of Dick's head, his thumb rubbing circles on his shoulder; both profiles fine and sharp, matching dark hair and dark eyes. They didn't talk. Maybe they didn’t need to.

Finally, Bruce said something. At first, Clark couldn't make it out. He had untangled himself from his son, taken another step closer to the tank, where a ray had approached the glass. It wasn't swimming, not quite. It almost looked like it was flying. When Bruce spoke again, Clark could tell it wasn't English.

'Why are you speaking Russian to the stingray?' Dick asked.

'It's presumptuous to assume that a stingray would speak English, Dick.'

'That doesn't explain why you'd speak Russian to them. _Are_ there even stingrays in Russia?'

Bruce shrugged.

'Some, I'm sure.'

'You speak Russian?' Clark asked.

'Yes, I do.' Bruce said it in a way that suggested he was wondering: _why, don't you?_ 'Let's continue.'

'How many languages do you speak?' Clark had never considered that Bruce knew any other language than English. There were moments when even he had a hard time gelling the reality of Bruce Wayne and Batman. That _Batman_ would know lots of languages didn't have surprised him one jot.

'I know French. German. Spanish. Decent enough Italian to get through the opera.' Bruce stopped, looking at the coral exhibition for five seconds before he started walking again. 'And a smattering of Czech. I had some business there a while ago, so it made sense. I can order a drink in Chinese, but I never got much further than that.'

'So… seven languages?'

'Something like that.' Bruce shrugged.

'Growing up, Bruce was a real stickler for language education,' Dick told Clark as he read a plaque about how shark's teeth grow back, 'at dinner every Tuesday he would only speak Spanish with us. Thursdays, French. Saturday lunch was German. He gave up when it was clear he was alone in having an ear for languages.' He followed this up by saying something in what was possibly French.

Bruce winced.

'It's like you're _trying_ to mangle the pronunciation,' he complained, but Clark could see the twinge of a smile. Dick grinned back at him.

'Hey, let's go to the petting zoo.'

'How old are you?' Bruce asked.

'I'm 29. And I want to go to the petting zoo.'

Ten minutes later, Bruce had sweet-talked the petting zoo attendant into letting them enter even though none of them was twelve or under. _He's my son_ , Bruce had explained and pointed to Dick, _and he really wants to come into the petting zoo. The sign says “bring your parents!” so here's my son, bringing his parents. Well, I'm his parent and he's my – ah – uh – my boyfriend, so_. Dick had bit his lip to prevent a grin, and Clark's heart ricocheted in his chest. He hadn’t expected that the first time Bruce would refer to him as his boyfriend would be to a grubby-looking teen. The teen probably decided that he didn't earn enough to keep fighting about the entrance rules with a middle-aged man in an expensive suit, and opened the gate for them.

At once, Dick took them to the goat enclosure. Bruce immediately sat down and scooped a passing goat kid into his lap.

'I wanted a goat when I was a kid,' Dick said, sitting in the dirt with another goat in front of him, gently scratching its stomach. 'I badgered Bruce for months about it. Had a campaign and everything. _A kid for this kid!_ '

'What did you do?' Clark asked Bruce, as he leaned down and hesitantly stroked the goat in Bruce's lap. If he thought Clark overstepped, he didn't say anything.

'I took him to a goat farm. Two minutes with the goats, and one of them headbutted Dick.'

'Did you pay that goat to headbutt me?' Dick asked.

'I paid the _farmer_ ,' Bruce said. He frowned slightly before adding: 'to be perfectly clear, I did not pay the farmer so you would get headbutted. I paid the farmer to apologise for the situation. It was very embarrassing.'

'Instead, I got a tortoise.'

'How is that little demon?'

'He's not a little demon, he's _Damian._ And he is fine, thank you for asking.' Dick grinned up at Clark. 'He's fifteen, cranky, and I love him. He’s my best friend. Come over sometime and I'll introduce you.'

'He'll bite your fingers,' Bruce warned, his voice was fond.

'Can I take a picture of you?' Clark blurted the words without meaning to. It shouldn't be embarrassing. Wanting to take a picture of your maybe-kind-of-friend and fake boyfriend was definitely a normal thing to want to do.

'Why?' Bruce was still stroking the kid in his lap. He looked up at him a little oddly, a little fondly.

'You're sitting in dirt in a _really_ nice suit, and you've got a baby goat in your lap. It's – if I don't take a picture I will be convinced I imagined it all.'

Bruce laughed. Actually, truly laughed. Not Bruce Wayne's dirty snicker, not Batman's hateful chuckle. It was all Bruce, and Clark could feel his heart – no, he clenched his fist and tried to not think about his heart.

'Go on, then.' While Clark was fumbling with his phone, flipping through the screens to find the camera icon, Bruce continued. 'It's not _that_ nice a suit. It was practically off the rack.'

Dick, who was now scratching a rabbit between the ears, looked his father over.

'Who's it by? Doesn't look like any of your regular guys.'

'I got it in Milan a few weeks back.' Bruce touched the lapel of his suit jacket, the other hand still lazily running over the goat's back.

'What were you doing in Milan?' Dick asked, as Clark tried to take a nice picture. Bruce looked at him, his head cocked.

'Business. Nothing fun. It was –'

Clark didn't hear the rest of the sentence. All of a sudden – he was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of danger, urgency, and he knew that he needed to go, that he needed to suit up, that he needed to protect and save lives. A thousand miles away, a high-rise was on fire.

'I – I need to go.' Clark stammered, and the screams from the trapped people were tearing into his mind, and it was all he could hear. 'I'm sorry, I need–'

'Go.' Bruce's voice. He was right by him, a hand skimming over his shoulder. He heard a low _bleat_ of the goat traipsing away. 'Are you okay?'

'Yeah, it's just, I –' he looked around, and he should have left already, he should be gone, he should be there. He needed to get to Metropolis, he needed to get his suit. 'Where's my backpack?'

'I believe you left it at the tailor's. I'll go back and get it for you.' Bruce looked concerned, his fingers still almost-touching his upper arm. 'Clark, go.'

'I'm sorry,' Clark said even as he was backing off. 'It was nice meeting you for real, Dick.'

'It was good seeing you, too!' Dick hollered after him, as Clark looked for a quiet spot, some place from which he could fly away.

* * *

He wasn't able to contain the fire, but he was able to save everyone. It was good. He did good. Coming back to Metropolis, he stayed in the shower until he had scrubbed the soot from under his nails and he could smell something other than burnt plastic and burning drywall. He got dressed – slacks and a t-shirt, not the suit – and set off again.

Alfred answered the door.

'Master Clark. Would you like to come in?'

Clark hesitated and found himself casting his senses inside. Dick was talking about something and Bruce was chuckling along with the story. It was domestic, quiet, and different from what he would be expecting in the Wayne lakehouse.

'No, ah – I just need my backpack. I don't want to interrupt.'

'Very well.' Momentarily, Alfred returned with his beat-up bag, holding it by the backpack handle with two fingers. Clark accepted it, throwing it over his shoulder. Alfred moved. A precursor to closing the door.

'I, um, Alfred. Could I talk to you for a moment?'

'Of course, sir.'

'Clark, please.' He would push for this like Sisyphus pushed that rock. He didn't for a second imagine he would be any more successful.

Alfred took a step outside, gently closing the door. Not even Clark could hear the _click_ of wood against wood when it shut.

'How can I help you?' Ever the butler, ever passive.

'Do you, um. Do you approve?' Clark licks his lips, in too deep already. 'I mean, it's not real, obviously it's not, but even so. You are important to Bruce and I don't really know you and I just want to know if you... approve.'

Clark stared past Alfred, boring his eyes into the front door. He blinked. He shouldn't _literally_ do that.

'Clark.' Alfred spoke softly, and it took a moment before he realised that he was saying his name. Alfred was calling him his name. He had managed what Sisyphus would not. 'You are a remarkable young man.'

'I – thanks.'

'And even I have long since accepted that there is no future in which master Bruce will settle down with some nice girl, shed his skin, bring the pitter-patter of tiny feet into the halls of Wayne manor again. I had given up the hope that he would ever marry at all. So this arrangement, regardless of how _real_ it is,' and there was something about the way he said _real_ , something Clark couldn't quite put his finger on, 'will be very welcome. Bruce has been alone for so very long.'

Clark opened his mouth. He shut it. He tried again, and found himself letting the stupid question he knew better than to ask tumble out.

'If it was real, would you still approve?'

Alfred chuckled. He raised his hand and let it rest against his cheek. It was dry, warm, and Clark thought of his father and he wanted to cry.

'I may be old, Clark, but I'm not a fool.' He took a step away, his hands folded behind his back. He was the Wayne family butler again. 'If it _were_ real, I'd say Bruce Wayne would be a very lucky gentleman.'

'Thank you.' The words didn't come out right, Clark's throat choked up and rough.

'Of course, master Kent.'

'Uh, would you – could you not tell Bruce about this? I don't want him to misunderstand. You know.'

Alfred narrowed his eyes, before his face smoothed and he nodded.

'Of course.'

'Well, I better head out. It was nice talking to you.' Oh, Clark was such a bumbling, stupid idiot.

'Likewise, master Kent. Please fly safe.'

'Thank you.'

* * *

Bruce, knowing how long it takes him to fly from the Wayne estate back to his Metropolis apartment, must have known to the second when Clark had left the lakehouse doorway. Clark had barely made it back to his apartment, jamming into the cramped elevator from the roof back down to his small one bedroom, when the text came.

_You should've come in._

Far too quickly, he replied.

_I didn't want to interrupt._

Seconds crawled by as he waited for a response. He dumped his backpack on his sofa, debating starting the write-up of his notes so he could pass them on to Perry. He went to the fridge and got a beer instead. Opened it with a twist of his wrist. It wasn't a twist-off.

 _You're very thoughtful._ A second text followed: _Thank you for today._

 _Thank you._ Clark's chest felt tight and there was heat in his stomach and he was too transparent and just _thank you_ was too much and Bruce would find out and this was a terrible idea and Clark needed to get himself under control and he kept staring at the picture he had taken of Bruce today and his half-plussed smile was killing Clark and and and –

_Sweet dreams, Kansas._

Clark finished his beer and went to bed. He did his best to dream of nothing at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by my love of drama, libraries, and drinking nice beverages from inappropriate vessels.

For a week and a half, he didn’t see Bruce. On Sunday, Dick texted him and asked if he wanted to join them for brunch. Superman was carrying a reindeer up by the border of Finland when he received the message, and he had left his phone in Metropolis. Once he was back, he had to text to apologise that no, sorry, he had been busy. An upside-down smiling face was the reply, with _Next time_ punctuated with three exclamation points.

Throughout the working week, he waited to hear about who was dying and dug through the archives. In the database of the Daily Planet, he stared at the neatly organised folders of unpolished obituaries. He had read his own obituary, once he came back, more than a year ago. Superman’s obituary. Reading it tasted like bile in his throat, and he had crumpled up the paper even as he read it. He hadn’t read the new one, the one that some intern had cobbled together when it was clear that Superman was back, that Superman was _alive_. The obituary that they were holding onto until he died again. There was never one for Clark Kent, not really. A paragraph or two, a courtesy for Lois’ grief and, who knows, Bruce’s shame. (He should ask. He knew Bruce wouldn’t admit to anything.) There were other obituaries, too. Wonder Woman. Batman. Bruce Wayne. While not writing a refresh of the obituary for a celebrity (who had tweeted something ambiguous about living life to the fullest while you have it), he stared at the folder _W_. It took more self-control than he thought he had not to open it. He considered texting Bruce. He didn’t. He changed his phone background to the picture of Bruce, then changed it back. He stared at his smile for what felt like hours.

He didn’t call his mother.

He saw Batman twice that week. There wasn’t much to talk about.

Dick would text him intermittently throughout the week, sharing pictures of his tortoise and asking Clark to explain what the implications of some foreign politician or another’s latest comments had on US national policy. More than once, Clark had to admit: _You should be asking Bruce about this_. More than once, Dick replied: _he’d be so obnoxious, tho._

(He wasn’t _wrong_ , per se.)

As the week rolled into a slow weekend, Clark found himself missing Bruce. He should have expected it, he supposed. Throughout the week, he had found himself listening for him, hoping that he was somewhere in Metropolis, that his steady calming heartbeat was close. He heard it in Gotham. Listening to it there felt like eavesdropping. There was a part of him that had thought he’d be immune. Immune to _what_ was less clear, but. Immune to whatever it was that made people fall in love with Bruce Wayne. (Not that he was in love, no sir. He was – he was in _like_ , if anything.) Still, he felt his pulse loud in his throat on Sunday when he finally could justify a text to make plans for the week.

 _What’s happening on Tuesday?_ He asked. He expected Bruce to be the one to call the shots.

 _Busy day._ A moment. _Meetings all day._ Another beat. _Maybe a coffee?_

This threw Clark off a little. It wasn’t that he _was_ expecting anything from Bruce. He had just – he had hoped for maybe lunch. Maybe a half-afternoon slacking off, listening to Bruce drone on about something insignificant – the quality of the oysters at the new lunch spot downtown, that his latest secretary only wrote in shorthand and he was becoming sure it was out of spite – and just. Spending time together. Of course Clark wasn’t _expecting_ that.

 _I’ll come by your office_ _after the fitting, then?_

 _Perfect_. The next message was the name of a coffee shop, followed by an impossibly complicated coffee order. The third message was four words: _Look forward to it._

* * *

The suit fit like a glove. It made Clark uncomfortable, looking at himself in the mirror as Giuseppe fussed around him, adding pins and tugging at seams to ensure his work held up. He looked _good_. For a moment, he had the vain thought of taking a picture. He brushed it off. For whom would he even be taking a picture for? When Giuseppe was satisfied, he made Clark try on the other suit, which fit even better than before, although it was not half as nice as the blue one. A little embarrassed to ask, he asked if he could wear it out of the shop.

‘I’m done with it, so I don’t care.’

It was clear that Giuseppe _did_ care, however, about the way Clark shoved the waistcoat into his backpack with his jeans and corduroy jacket. The tailor reiterated in a tight voice that the new suit would be ready the day of the event. Walking out of the store without paying felt strange, but both Giuseppe and Vincent insisted that the bill was settled. 

The coffee shop Bruce had suggested was a bizarre combination of luxurious studded leather bar stools and brick walls. He noticed the way the barista looked him up and down when he approached the cash register, and the sharp way she smiled when she asked if she could take his order. He pulled up Bruce’s text and started reciting. Halfway through the order, she interrupted him.

‘Is this for Bruce Wayne?’ She asked smugly, and Clark nodded. She raised her eyebrows, and threw away the sticker she had been scrawling the order on, and wrote a new one, affixing it to a black take-away cup. ‘We call it the prima donna special. What about you, sugar?’

‘That’s a little mean, don’t you think?’ Maybe he shouldn’t be defending Bruce. The order was ridiculous.

‘His order takes a minute to even _write_. We keep a special roast just for him. He’s one of the richest people in the world. He can take a little bit of ridicule.’ She winked at him. ‘Are you a new secretary or something? Haven’t seen you around.’

‘No, I’m – well, I’m. I’m just getting him some coffee. I don’t, I don’t work for him.’ Clark was growing flustered, the words tripping over his tongue and out into the world without including conscious thought. ‘I’ll, uh, I’ll have a latte. With a syrup, I guess? Where are the – oh, there’s a lot of options.’

The barista’s hair, a dark blue-purple mess, was falling into her face. She ran a hand through it as she stared at him, waiting for him to make his mind up. After another minute, she took pity on him.

‘What about the rosemary vanilla? We make it in-store.’ She said the last sentence in an artificially singsong way, as if a manager had told her she should remind people about this, as though doing that would boost revenue.

‘Sure, sounds fine. How much do I owe you?’

He coughed when she told him, but fished out the bills and dumped the rest of the change in the tip jar.

This time, the secretary seemed to expect Clark. She lifted a finger at him as he got out of the lift, the phone receiver already up to hear ear.

‘Mr Kent is here. Should I send him in?’ Following Bruce’s murmured response, she hung up and turned to Clark. ‘He’s expecting you.’

Today, Bruce was lounging in one of the arm chairs by the floor-to-ceiling window wall. With his eyes still focused on the Gotham skyline, he raised a hand in greeting. Clark joined him in the other arm chair, leaving the coffees on the small table beside them. Bruce picked his up, glancing at the neatly printed _PRIMA DONNA_ on his cup before taking a sip. He sighed.

‘How were the obituaries?’ He asked the question easily, breezily, as though there hadn’t been ten days where the only civilian conversation they had had was a five-minute span of texting back-and-forth, planning for their meeting today. A small part of Clark wanted to tell him he could have _asked_ about the obituaries over _text_.

‘Not bad, considering.’ He had dreaded the idea of some national tragedy, some natural disaster or act of unimaginable cruelty. ‘A lot of copyediting. Proofreading the death notices of people who probably won’t die for another decade or two.’

‘What does my obituary say?’ Bruce looked at him directly, eyes narrowed.

‘I haven’t read it.’

‘Why not?’

Clark licked his lips. Hesitated.

‘I prefer you alive.’ he settled on.

‘That makes one of us. Oh shut up, you know I’m making a joke,’ Bruce added when Clark’s face fell. (Still, Clark wasn’t sure he was joking.) ‘We should talk about Saturday.’

Saturday. The gala. They should talk about that.

‘Right, yeah. What’s the plan?’

‘Oh, it’s easy.’ Bruce took another sip of his coffee and looked out the window. ‘We go to the gala, I don’t keep my hands off you, drop a few inappropriate comments, kiss you, tell some half-decent gossip rag writer what a lucky guy I am. You just stand there and be pretty.’

He turned back to Clark, the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He was waiting for Clark’s reaction. ( _Kiss you. Be pretty._ )

‘That… sounds like a plan.’ Clark was finally able to say. Somehow the tremor he felt in his chest wasn’t echoed in his voice.

‘Does it sound like a _good_ plan?’

This was Clark’s out. When he wasn’t being horrid, Burce could sometimes be thoughtful. He was giving Clark the opportunity to take a step back, to back out, to not get further drawn into this whole mess that was Bruce and Wayne and oh-so-far away from a Kansas farm life or even a mostly-comfortable Metropolis middle class existence. A better man would have backed out. But Clark was selfish. He was a glutton for whatever Bruce would give him. He wasn’t a better man.

‘It makes sense. It’s a good plan.’ He spoke with a confidence he wasn’t sure that he felt. Clark barely caught the flicker behind Bruce’s face. He couldn’t name it.

Bruce stared at him for another tense few seconds.

‘Good.’ He finally said.

Then he launched into an explanation of logistics: that he had booked a suite for the night and Clark should meet him there at 4.30 sharp; that he would get the suit sent there once it was ready; that Clark should bring a change of clothes; that Dick would cover for him in Gotham and maybe Diana could drop by Metropolis for the night; that the gala started at five but only an idiot would get there before six thirty. Finally he paused and studied Clark.

‘Show me your teeth.’ Nonplussed, Clark bared his teeth. Bruce looked at his mouth for a moment before nodding. ‘They’re fine. I was considering suggesting a cleaning. But I guess your teeth are made of something tougher than enamel?’

Clark chewed his lip.

‘I don’t know, really.’ He drank his latte – which, for having vanilla and rosemary, had rather more vanilla than rosemary. ‘I guess I could ask the ship.’

Bruce drummed his fingers against the fabric chair. For a mindless second, Clark wondered if Bruce was going to ask to – ask to touch his teeth, take samples and figure it out for him. But no. Of course not. That was an unhinged thought.

‘What I’m saying is your teeth are straight and all-American. That was all I was getting at. Those people care about that.’ 

‘You mean rich people?’

Bruce answered with a dazzling white smile. 

‘Got it in one, Kansas.’

They drank their coffees in a comfortable silence. Without Bruce leading the conversation, Clark didn’t know what to say. They watched Gotham together. Sooner than Clark expected, Bruce lobbed his empty coffee cup into a trash can by his desk and got up, buttoning his waistcoat and adjusting his jacket.

‘I have a meeting with Tokyo in about fifteen minutes.’ _with_ Tokyo, Bruce said, as though he were having a meeting with the entire city. ‘I’m afraid I’m kicking you out, Mr Kent.’

Clark realised that he had not called him by his first name all day. It had been _Kansas._ It had been _Mr Kent_. He wasn’t sure if it meant something.

‘Don’t worry about it, Mr Wayne.’ He decided it was a way for Bruce to tease, to cut through any tension caused by their strange situation. ‘I appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule to make time for a plebeian like myself.’

His coffee cup hit the trash can just as well as Bruce’s. He caught Bruce’s gaze, who was cataloguing Clark’s decision to wear his newly-fitted suit without the waistcoat, with the top button unbuttoned instead of covered by a tie.

‘Nice suit,’ was all Bruce said.

Clark felt his eyes on him when he left, and decided not to think about it.

* * *

As promised, Bruce was waiting for him in the suite. It was Bruce Wayne all over, booking a suite for a night when his home was an easy fifteen-minute car ride away. His hair was damp, curled with the weight of water. The fluffy robe looked odd on him, too soft compared to the Kevlar or fine wool he was usually in. Bruce glanced up from the tablet in his lap.

‘You’re early.’

‘I, uh, thought I might as well be. I couldn’t remember when it was starting.’ It was a lie, but Bruce didn’t need to know that. Clark had been too antsy to take the train to Gotham, and had managed to fly undetected to a nearby park. He dumped his backpack on the floor, resting the garment bag on a finger. He hovered in the corner of the room. ‘So what should I do?’

Bruce looked him over, his reading glasses down on the tip of his nose.

‘Take a shower. Then get dressed.’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘Do you want anything? Coffee? Tea?’

‘Coffee’s fine.’

‘There’ll be some when you’re out.’ Bruce returned to his screen.

Clark pulled the shirt from the garment bag and brought it and his bag to the bathroom. He let the shower run hot, hot enough that it would scald a regular man. The heat was soothing. Outside, he could hear Bruce. He was humming something to himself, tapping his fingers against the sofa. A couple of minutes later, as the lather of shampoo ran over Clark’s face (shampoo which, he didn’t realise until too late, must have been Bruce’s because it smelled like him, rich and clean and elegant), he heard Bruce move. He heard the _clink_ of a hanger pulled off a hanging rod, of fine fabric whispering as it was dragged off the velvet hanger. He heard the _thump_ of Bruce’s robe hitting – the floor, maybe, but Clark was too distracted to continue the line of thought when he realised that Bruce was – if not naked in the other room – at the very least in some state of undress. He reminded himself that he’d seen Bruce’s body, covered with constant bruises and the nasty edges of self-sewn scars, and his mouth had never gone dry and his eyes had never lingered. Clark rubbed the soap over his arms and turned the shower cold.

Later, the jingle of metal. The creak of fine leather. Clark towelled his hair as best he could as he heard a knock on the door to the suite and a short murmured conversation, before the door was closed again. He pulled on his underwear and buttoned his shirt.

When he left the bathroom, Bruce was drinking from a bowl cradled in his hands.

‘Is that soup?’ Clark couldn’t put his finger on why the idea of Bruce enjoying soup was so foreign to him.

‘I’m not going to drink on an empty stomach. And I like soup.’ He returned to his bowl.

Bruce had gotten dressed while Clark showered. _Mostly_ dressed, at least: his waistcoat was unbuttoned; his jacket was nowhere to be seen; his bowtie hung untied around his neck. There was a second cafetiere of coffee on the end table, as well as a bottle of champagne and two emptyflutes. Clark pressed down the plunger and poured himself a cup of coffee. Of course Bruce hadn’t asked for any milk or sugar. His mother would have asked for milk and sugar, and she would probably have been a lot nicer about it than Bruce ever would.

His ma.

 _Hell_.

‘I need to call my mom.’ Clark said.

‘You still haven’t done that? You really are hopeless.’ Bruce placed the soup bowl on the table in front of him. He sounded tired. ‘Do you need _me_ to do it?’

‘No, no, I can – I can do it, it’s just. I haven’t really… had the chance to do it. And, uh, at this point I really should so she knows what’s going on.’

Bruce didn’t say anything, just looking at him over his glasses. Clark sighed, a deep and weary sigh, and slouched on the opposite couch. He pulled his phone out, dialled the number, and turned on the speakerphone.

It wasn’t that he was _scared_ to call his mother. She would not be cruel about it, because Martha Kent had never been cruel for a second in her life. But he was worried that she would – that she would react like Lois, with a furrowed brow and concern, and that she would somehow, in her kind and generous questions, make Clark trip up. Make him say something. Make him _too_ honest.

‘Clark! I’ve missed you. What mischief has you finally calling your lonesome mother?’ Her voice was warm as always, crackling with affection through the satellite towers and the underground cables.

‘Ma,’ Clark smiled beside himself. He was about to start pattering about nothing at all, settle into the easy back-and-forth his mother could always ease him into. Bruce cleared his throat, just a little. Reminding Clark that he was calling for a _reason_. ‘Oh, right. I’ve got you on speakerphone. Um, Bruce Wayne’s here.’

‘Bruce!’ He couldn’t see his mother, hundreds of miles away, but he could _hear_ her smile, the twinkle in her eye. ‘How are you, my dear boy? How’s the bank?’

‘I’m well, Mrs Kent. And the bank is – I don’t well know, really. My accountants keep an eye on all that. You know how it is.’ With Clark’s mother, Bruce always shifted into some half-mask, the charm up to ten, the self-deprecation at full force. He became something between Bruce Wayne, Batman, and _Bruce_. An amalgamation of a man who didn’t quite know how to act around a mother called Martha.

‘Martha, _please_ , Bruce. How many times do I have to tell you?’

‘I possibly _couldn’t,_ Mrs Kent.’ Bruce’s voice was full of smiles, but his face was tense. He met Clark’s eyes and raised his eyebrows, mouthed _well?_ His fingers were pressed against his knees, his nails slowly whitening from the pressure.

‘Ma…’ Clark hesitated.

‘Yes, my sun-and-moon?’

‘Um, I’m going to tell you something, and you have to let me explain what I’m saying, and I don’t want you to misunderstand or to think that I am trying to keep anything from you and–’

‘Mrs Kent, your son and I are going to get married.’ Bruce interrupted, and he didn’t pay any mind to Martha’s squeaked _what!_ before continuing. ‘We’re not in love, it’s not a real relationship – I am paying millions a year to the American war machine and your son has generously agreed to help me so I can divert that money to a better cause. However, as the Internal Revenue Service is a little backwards, we will be – pretending.’

Clark was stuck on the firm and confident way in which Bruce said _we’re not in love_ , but he was doing his best to follow what Bruce was saying, and he wondered why the pause, why the hesitation before adding that _pretending_.

‘Oh,’ said Martha Kent.

‘So, um. We’re going to a party tonight and it’s one of those, y’know, ridiculous things you’ll see in movies. And there’ll be photographers and everything and I just wanted to make sure you knew and you didn’t, I dunno, find out from some friend of a friend of a friend posting something inflammatory about it on Facebook.’ Clark stared at the phone in front of him, waiting for his mother’s response.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ she finally said. ‘You know you didn’t need to wait until the last moment to tell me, sweetheart?’

‘No, I know. I just – I got busy. Work’s been swamped. I just, I just wanted you to know.’

‘Thank you, Clark.’ She seemed to hesitate for a moment. ‘Bruce, could I talk to Clark alone for a moment?’

‘Of course. I need to shave, anyway. As always, lovely to talk to you.’

Bruce offered a polite goodbye, soft around the edges and warmer than any greeting he has ever offered Clark. Clark looked at him. It didn’t look like he needed to shave, but with a short nod, he made himself scarce and closed the door to the bathroom. Clark turned off the speaker phone and put the phone to his ear.

‘Clark. Is this a good idea?’ His mother’s voice, calm and sweet and just a little worried. Clark opens his mouth to say something, but is unable to find the words. ‘I am going to ask you a question, and I want you to be honest. Are you in love with him?’

‘ _Ma_! No, it’s nothing like that, that’s not – no, mom.’ It wasn’t a lie, not technically. Clark was not in _love_. ‘It’s like he said. We work together. I like him. He thinks I’m tolerable. It’s a good strategy.’

‘Honey, it just seems like an awful lot of work for just a little bit of money.’

Clark launched into an explanation that it was in no way _a little bit_ of money, it was a _big bit_ of money, it was macroeconomics levels of money, mom, he could not stress _enough_ how much money this was. 

‘And all those girls of Bruce’s?’

‘What about them?’

‘How do they fit into this picture?’

‘Well, uh. We hadn’t really talked about that. But obviously there won’t be any of that.’ _That_ being: paparazzi photographs of Bruce with his hand far too high up a model’s thigh; socialite parties with ballerinas in Bruce’s lap; days at the races with some young actress leaning up against Bruce and gazing at him through half-lidded eyes.

‘Are you sure?’ Patient, patient, patient. ‘I don’t want you to be hurt.’

‘Yes, mom. I’m sure. And I won’t be hurt. I promise, mom.’ And promising to his mother that he wouldn’t be hurt was just as much a promise to himself, that he wouldn’t _let_ himself be hurt.

‘If you’re sure, Clark.’

‘I’m sure. This is a good idea. He’s a good man.’ Clark wondered if Bruce was listening. He heard water run in the bathroom. Maybe he really was shaving. ‘I hope – I hope this won’t make things hard for you, mom.’

‘It won’t, my darling boy. Everyone here loves you, and nothing you do will stop that. And I love you so much.’

‘I love you, ma. I should probably go. I need to be getting ready.’

‘Take care. Oh, and Clark? Come for dinner sometime. You and Bruce. It’s been so long since I saw you. Both of you.’

‘I promise.’

Clark allowed himself a minute of quiet after he ended the phone call. He finished his coffee – sharp, bitter – and poured himself another cup. It was already lukewarm. Soon, Bruce reappeared.

‘How did it go?’ he asked, uncorking the champagne bottle. He held the cork in the V of his thumb and finger, twisting the bottle with his other hand. It opened without a sound, and he tilted the glasses before he poured the wine.

‘It went well.’ Clark drank the rest of his coffee in one gulp and accepted the offered glass. He dragged his lip through his teeth and tried to figure out how to ask the question his mother had brought up. ‘Will you cheat on me when we’re married? I mean, technically?’

Bruce tilted his head and frowned at him.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Those – those girls.’

Bruce straightened his head, working his jaw. Clark recognised this movement: it was Batman deciding whether to fight with his hands or his words. It was Bruce deciding whether this was something worth having an argument about. He set his face into a mask of nothing at all, and exhaled.

‘Do you think I’m screwing around?’ Bruce asked quietly.

‘I mean, I read the news.’

‘And when was the last time the rags reported on one of my little indiscretions?’

‘I’m – not quite sure.’ Clark was uncomfortable with the fact that he was sitting down while Bruce was still standing. Bruce was towering over him, even though he stood several feet away. Getting up would be an escalation.

‘ _Once_ last year. And only because circumstances forced me to.’ Bruce downed his champagne and poured himself another glass, the wine mostly bubbles in the crystal. He was staring at Clark, his jaw tight. ‘I haven’t _slept_ with any of them for _years_. Christ, Clark, what kind of fucking man do you think I am?’

‘I – I don’t. I just – I.’ The words stuck in his throat and he was doing so badly and he should shut _up_ and – ‘I would just prefer not to be a cuckold.’

‘It’s not a _real_ marriage.’

‘I know, I know, I know it’s not. And I don’t want it to be,’ ( _lying is a sin, Clark,_ ) ‘but I want you to still respect me. We are friends.’

‘Yeah, we are _friends_.’ And there it was, that tone Bruce sometimes used on Clark, the word soaked with derision. Bruce had a streak of cruelty that he did not always care to temper. He took a deep breath. ‘And what about you? You don’t strike me as the sort of person who would sleep with someone without a _deep emotional connection_ ’ (again: that mocking tone) ‘but you won’t miss that, stuck with me?’

Clark bit his tongue. There were many ways he could answer, and he wasn’t sure which one would defuse the argument. _I don’t think of it as being stuck with you_. No, a bad answer, because Bruce would curl his mouth to another beautiful sneer and ask what he _did_ think of it as. _That’s none of your business_. Bad _and_ hypocritical. _I’m sorry that I think sex_ means _something_. Fighting, fighting, fighting.

‘No.’ Clark finally said. ‘I don’t think I will.’

Bruce stilled, just slightly. He looked him over, and Clark wasn’t sure what he was looking for.

‘Figures, really.’ He checked his clock. ‘Finish dressing. We should be leaving soon.’

Like that, the argument was over. The fight bled from the room as Clark buttoned his waistcoat, tied his shoelaces, put the cufflinks into the cuffs. Bruce had collapsed into an armchair, legs spread over one side as he scrolled through his phone. Apart from the bowtie still untied, he was fully dressed. The tension of their brief fight was slowly ebbing away, replaced by silence and the occasional _clink_ of the champagne glasses touching the glass table.

‘It’s time for you to laugh at me,’ Clark finally said, the bowtie a tangled mess around his neck. He was in front of the full-length mirror, and he could see Bruce crane his head to look at him. ‘I don’t know how to tie a bowtie. Can you help me?’

Bruce didn’t laugh, not really. He chuckled a little, low and dark in the back of his throat. He joined Clark in front of the mirror, bringing a chair with him.

‘Sit.’ Bruce untangled the bowtie when Clark had sat down, facing the mirror. ‘Of course you don’t know how to tie a bowtie. You don’t even know the Balthus. Will you pay attention?’

Bruce’s fingers were on Clark’s shoulders. Even through the dress shirt, he thought he could feel the whorls of Bruce’s fingerprints. He brushed his fingers gently over Clark’s shirt as he waited for a reply.

‘Yes, yeah. I will.’ Clark swallowed as Bruce evened the lengths of the bowtie, then pulled one side further down. His fingers were warm and Clark thought wildly of something to distract himself with. ‘I googled the Balthus. They said it was a ridiculously big knot and not worth learning.’

Bruce exhaled again, amused. He reached back and handed Clark his champagne glass.

‘Drink that. Yes, I _know_ it doesn’t affect you, but only an idiot would show up to an event like this without booze on their breath. Since you’re coming with me, it was going to be scotch or champagne. I even got you a demi-sec so you wouldn’t complain too much.’

‘What’s that?’

Bruce was just _standing_ there, his hands on each end of the bowtie. Clark resisted the urge to fidget under his touch. This was too intimate, too close. It was worse than when Bruce tied his tie in front of the Ritz concierge, worse than his hands in his hair, worse than the way he had stared at Clark while he was getting the suit fitted.

‘It’s a sweeter champagne. Now, shush.’

What followed was a lecture on how to tie a bowtie. With each movement, Bruce explained what he was doing, walking Clark through the steps one by one. After finishing a beautiful tie, he unravelled it and did it again, step by step by step. Bruce’s fingers were warm where they brushed against his neck, and Clark didn’t breathe. After the second attempt of the bowtie was completed, Bruce clapped both of his shoulders.

‘Right. Your turn.’

‘Wait, what?’ It was a good thing Bruce _knew_ he could say long words, because when he went full Bruce Wayne one syllable seemed to be the longest Clark could manage these days.

‘Tie my bowtie. Prove you learned something from my _excellent_ teaching.’

‘I’ll make a mess of it.’ Clark promised as he stepped out of the chair and watched Bruce sit, adjusting his collar and straightening his back. He cocked his head back, meeting Clark’s eye.

‘Honey, _Bruce Wayne_ ’s a mess. Figures his tie should be, too.’ The grin spread across Bruce’s face was cocksure and wide, his eyes twinkling.

Bruce had called him honey once before, as he struggled with his cufflinks, but this time the endearment sat heavy in Clark’s stomach. He poured himself another glass of champagne and yes, now that Bruce had said it, he could tell that it was sweeter than the one they had had at their dinner. He downed it and began his work with trembling fingers. Bruce’s smile hadn’t quite left his face, one corner of his mouth still hitched up. In the mirror, Clark could see how Bruce’s eyes were trained on his work. For one brief moment, Bruce reached up and pressed his palm against his fingers. (Bruce’s neck. Clark’s fingers. Bruce’s hand.)

‘I won’t yell at you if you screw it up, Clark. There’s no need to shiver.’

Bruce misunderstood the shivering. That was – that was good, all things considered. Clark exhaled and steadied his fingers. (Bruce’s skin, where he touched it, was surprisingly soft. Warm, because Bruce was warm, warmer than any human should be. Clark didn’t know why, didn’t know if he _really_ was. He didn’t know if it was all in his head.) After several false starts, and a couple of times where he _almost_ got it, he succeeded in tying something that was identifiable as a bowtie. He shoved his hands in his pockets and waited for Bruce’s verdict.

Bruce touched the tie with gentle fingers. He nodded.

‘Good job. It’s askew, of course, but.’ Bruce stood up and faced Clark, his stance easy. ‘But that’s what we’re expecting from Bruce Wayne, isn’t it? A complete shambles with someone much prettier on his arm?’

Clark’s reply was _some_ kind of sound. Bruce’s mouth twisted into another leer and he checked his watch.

‘Almost time to go. One more thing.’ Bruce rummaged in a suitcase at the end of the bed. Clark had finished a third glass of champagne once he returned, an oblong case in his hand. ‘Here.’

‘What’s this?’ Clark asked the question even as he was opening the box. Inside: a pair of glasses.

‘If you expect Bruce Wayne to date some four-eyed _kid_ , at least the glasses can’t be a monstrosity. Where did you even get them – the bargain bin at some closing department store?’

Clark picked out the glasses, turning them over. They weren’t too different from the ones he was wearing, heavy black frames and thick glass, but they felt – nice. Intentional. They _were_ so much nicer than the ones he’d worn for the last several years. But putting them on would be admitting that. It would, in some way, be admitting that Bruce knew better. How much of himself could he let Bruce mould into something new? Where would he draw the line?

‘I’m not a kid,’ he murmured.

‘You’d be more age-appropriate for my son than me, Clark.’ Bruce replied.

‘Well, he doesn’t know how to keep me in luxury like you.’ Clark could tease, too. (At the very least: he could try.)

He made a decision.

He took his glasses off. He glanced up at Bruce. Bruce’s face betrayed nothing. Maybe his eyes were slightly wide. But his heart was _hammering_ , just for a tenth of a moment before it slowed again. In that moment, it was Superman in the Bruce-bought suit and the Bruce-tied bowtie, not Clark. He looked down at the ground as he unfolded the new glasses. (He didn’t even _recognise_ the name inscribed on the temple.) With the glasses on his face, he looked up again.

‘What do you think?’

Bruce nodded. Clark could hear the _squeak_ of Bruce’s teeth grinding. He looked himself in the mirror, and – yes. They were good glasses. It was Clark Kent, but it was a _different_ Clark Kent. A more handsome, a more confident – a Clark Kent that was just _more_. The kind of man who _could_ have wrapped his fingers around Bruce Wayne’s heart. (And still: a man who wasn’t Superman.)

‘You look good.’ Bruce finally said, his voice tight and almost hesitant. ‘Our car should arrive in five minutes. I just need to call Dick and we can leave.’

He puttered around the hotel room while he spoke with his son, consolidating the sundry dirty dishes onto one tray, assessing how much of the champagne was left (just shy of a quarter), rejigging the shelves in the mini-fridge to fit it. He finished the last of his drink while listening to Dick. When he opened the door to the hallway, beckoning at Clark to follow him, he handed over his phone.

‘Hey, just wanted to say hi. How are you feeling?’ Dick’s voice was warm.

‘I’m good.’ He was aware of Bruce’s eyes on him in the elevator. The moment they had left the hotel room, Bruce’s posture had changed into that of Bruce Wayne: languid, easy, all responsibility or conscience washing off him like oil on water. Bruce Wayne was leaning in the corner of the gold-mirrored elevator and staring at him under heavy lids. ‘Bruce got me a new pair of glasses.’

Dick laughed.

‘Of _course_ he would. Have him send me a photo. Do you look ridiculous?’

Clark found himself looking at himself in the elevator mirror reflection.

‘I look _nice_. Your father said as much.’

‘Mm, yeah, bet he did.’ Dick chuckled. ‘Anyway, I should let you go. It’s almost dark. Got places to be, crime to fight. Don’t get drunk, don’t misbehave, don’t let dad talk you into anything stupid.’

‘Good luck tonight.’

‘You too, Clark. Let me say bye to dad?’

Back on the phone with Dick, Bruce was monosyllabic. He led Clark out of the elevator, through the large entrance hall, toward the gleaming black limousine waiting for them. Bruce sighed.

‘Love you too.’ He tucked his phone into an inner suit pocket and opened the door to the car. He turned to Clark. ‘Come on, then.’

The gala was excessive. Considering the clientele, of course it was. It was at the Gotham Natural History Museum. Seeing hundreds of well-tailored men and women mill around the museum with drink after drink made Clark worry about the exhibits, about all the ways drunk hands didn’t care about signs that say _do not touch_ . In a less concrete way and much more abstract sense, he worried, too, about the long looks some people gave him with Bruce’s hand in the small of his back. Bruce was undeterred by the frown of an aged senator as he spewed platitudes and explained how _clever_ Clark was and how he hoped that the senator would have the _pleasure_ of being interviewed by Clark the next time he got caught cheating on his wife.

Bruce whisked him around the room, meeting person after person after person. The moment his champagne flute was empty he somehow managed to whisk a new one out of nowhere, then his hand was back on Clark. His hand was a restless spider, making its way up his body. Bruce would stroke his spine with the back of his knuckles as he listened to yet another hawk-faced lady talked about how property taxes were just making Maine _miserable_ ; he would run his fingertips along Clark’s sleeve, hooking his hand in the crook of his elbow when he was bored with whoever he had just introduced him to. Bruce would introduce him as a _friend_ with such weight in his voice that he rarely needed the accompanied raised eyebrow. More than once, the reaction was a surprised (but not judging) _oh!_ and a polite question about how the two had met. Throughout the night, Clark got used to the refrains that Bruce kept repeating.

 _He tried to interview me, once. Years ago. He was so annoying. … But he’s such a_ pretty _man, isn’t he? … Got him in all sorts of trouble with his boss – you know how those free speech people are. … I_ know _, someone from_ Metropolis _? If he wasn’t such a catch I’d be mad at myself, too. … Yes, yes, ballerinas are all very fine, but when you’re at_ my age _, they don’t quite scratch that itch. Even_ I _want to settle down. And with a face like his,_ well _, can you blame me?_

It should bother Clark, the way Bruce spoke about him with these people, like a piece of property. None of them were _friends_ and more than one was as close to an enemy that anyone in high society without superpowers or delusions of grandeur could get. Bruce talked about Clark like he was a nice new toy, a sports car or a house with a seaside view. The commodification didn’t even sound conscious, just flowing from Bruce’s mouth as he tittered at the gossip his conversation partners offered. Somehow, though, it didn’t bother Clark. If anything, it was helpful, reminding him that this wasn’t real and he was just a prop.

The endearments Bruce began dropping partway through the evening, however, threw him for a loop. He sighed in the middle of a conversation about Maine versus Canadian lobster: _Baby, I’m_ famished, _let’s go and find some more of those shrimp._ Dragging them away from a boring diatribe about how social media was destroying society, he murmured _darling, let’s find someone from_ this _century_. His words were dripping with honey, and settled in Clark’s heart. It made it harder to remember that it wasn’t real.

More than once, Clark thought it was time for the kiss that Bruce had warned him about. He’d dip close, and Clark would feel his breath brush against his face. But, no. He would whisper something in his ear, something about some white-collar criminal he’d been tailing for weeks, about how did he _dare_ stand there pretending to be charitous when he was mistreating his workers like that. Or he’d tell Clark that he was doing well, that he was being excellent, that everyone was loving him. Clark would blush and murmur a thank you.

‘And you blush so pretty, too.’ Bruce purred after pulling back.

Clark didn’t speak much. Most people didn’t seem too interested in him as a _person_ , much more intent on learning about who he was to Bruce. A few times he would engage in conversation, talking about the importance of free speech and of libraries and of the social safety net. When he got too political, Bruce’s fingers would run over his back with just a little bit more pressure, a murmured _hey baby, calm down_ , _you’re in the belly of the beast here._ People would laugh at that, maybe more at Bruce than at Clark. One woman, whose greying hair was tinted a pale mauve, leaned over to Bruce and confided in him: _Brucie, I would never have expected you to shack up with a socialist!_

As the night wore on, the museum grew hotter, and Clark found himself more and more distracted by his senses. The clinking of crystal was loud in his ears. The heady perfumes and colognes overwhelmed his nose. The glitter and glitz made him dizzy. The taste of champagne and vol-au-vents rested heavy on his tongue. And through it all, Bruce’s presence. His steady heartbeat. His warm fingers. His cologne, just a little too strong. The scent of Bruce himself somewhere beneath that. His reassuring smiles and his steady grip.

‘Can we go somewhere quiet for a moment?’ Clark whispered after a congress hopeful had shaken both their hands and promptly left to argue about his proposed policies with someone more politically important. ‘It’s a little much.’

‘Of course.’

Bruce took his hand – actually wrapped their fingers together – and led him up the stairs. The stairs wound around the huge room, and the upper landing offered a myriad of directions in which to head. Bruce led them to the paleontological exhibit. Although the upstairs wasn’t closed off, most people had stayed on the ground floor. The people up here were looking for quiet, or – or perhaps just some darkness to hide in for a quick tryst. Bruce found a seat on a bench facing a T-Rex. It wasn’t an actual skeleton. It was a cast of one, but Clark was still, as always, impressed with the scale of it. The _size_ of it. Bruce and a T-Rex. It was almost like the Batcave.

And it was quiet, too. Clark sat down next to Bruce and closed his eyes for a second. Blissful, blessed silence.

‘Are you alright?’

Clark looked over, and Bruce’s eyebrows were a little furrowed. The product in his hair had succumbed to the humidity of the party, letting strands of black and grey fall in his face. Without thinking about it, Clark reached out and pushed them up, letting his fingertips tame his hair. (If he didn’t know better, he almost thought Bruce’s eyes fluttered shut.)

‘I’m fine. It was just a little much. I wasn’t… quite ready for how _loud_ everything would be.’ He leaned back on the bench, propping his hands against the edge. Clark watched the intricate bones of the dinosaur. ‘Not just sounds, but. Just too many sensations. Thanks for letting me get away.’

‘Thank you for letting me know you needed a moment.’ Bruce cocked his head at him, his smile lazy and all Wayne. ‘But you _know_ what people assume you were dragging me off for, right?’

Clark’s blush was a fervent scarlet, and Bruce’s laugh was short and kind.

‘We can stay here as long as you need.’ Bruce’s fingers ghosted over the back of Clark’s hand. ‘But it’s getting about time.

Clark swallowed.

‘On our way back down to the party. The stairs.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Clark shook his head. He felt almost normal again. He felt about as normal as he ever did close to Bruce.

‘Let’s go back.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure. I feel much better. I’m ready.’

‘Right.’

Clark accepted the hand Bruce offered him. They slowly made their way back to the main hall, and started down the stairs. Halfway down, Bruce stopped and turned. His hand moved up Clark’s arm, tracing the dark blue sleeve up to his shoulder, up to his lapel. His fingers curled around the fabric. On the step above, Clark was for once taller than Bruce, looking down on him. Bruce’s eyes flickered, deep and dark, from Clark’s eyes to mouth to eyes.

‘Okay?’ he murmured, already pulling Clark closer.

Clark managed a half-nod, a weak _mhm_ before Bruce closed the distance between them. It wasn’t like a first kiss, not really. Not like other first kisses Clark had had, which were hesitant and careful and a question that was waiting for an answer; the first kiss that was uncertain if there’d ever be a second. It was deep; it was just a little sloppy. It was like – like Bruce Wayne had gotten just a little drunk, like he had decided that kissing the man that he – he _liked_ was much more interesting than keeping up appearances at a society event. He tasted like champagne and he kissed like this was all he had ever wanted and Clark felt like he was flying and –

‘Down.’

Bruce growled against his lips, as though Clark was some kind of dog, some misbehaving beast that needed to be – and Clark realised that he was floating. Dropping back to Earth he landed just slightly off, more off the step than on it. He swayed into Bruce to not lose his balance and Bruce swayed back at him, catching him for another kiss. One of his hands rested on the ornate banister, his other was curled into Clark’s hair, keeping him close.

‘What was that about?’ Bruce murmured when he had decided it was enough, leaning their foreheads together.

‘I, um. I was just surprised.’ It was a barefaced lie. Bruce’s mouth on his had made him forget about gravity and ever-so-slightly lose his mind. ‘Thank you for catching me.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Bruce moved his hand from his hair, smoothing it down. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah,’ Clark breathed, and tried to look without staring as Bruce pulled away and ran his fingers through his hair, exhaling and looking down at the party below. His eyes were dark; his face was flush; his lips were red; his heart was fast. ‘Yeah, I’m good. How are you?’

(Clark reminded himself that that’s what kisses did. The fact that Clark had been involved in the kiss was immaterial.)

‘I’m not floating.’ Bruce said, a half-smile on his face and one perfect eyebrow raised. ‘Come on, let’s rejoin the party. Find someone I can shmooze into writing something nice.’

It only took a few minutes before a woman with a press badge approached them. Bruce spoke easily with her, his fingers low on Clark’s back. He talked to her about her (surprisingly insightful) questions about Wayne Enterprises and their sprawling subsidiaries, stringing her along with half-answers and almost-flirtatious remarks. She finally glanced over at Clark and addressed Bruce.

‘So, is this new?’ she asked, stretching a hand out to indicate them both. Her fingertips were black with ink and she was ready to scrawl notes when Bruce started talking again.

‘Oh! Yes, yes, it’s new, but you know–’ and he paused, his tongue between his teeth for a second and his thumb rubbing a pattern against Clark’s jacket, ‘you know when you meet someone, _really_ meet someone, and it just _clicks_ ? Like how, oh, the first time when you were a kid and you saw the moon, and you realised that, oh, I don’t know, you just realised _something_ about how the world works.’ He laughed a little, his hand moving up to Clark’s shoulder, pulling him a little closer. ‘I’m eight flutes deep – please think up a cleverer metaphor for me, won’t you?’

‘It’s a simile,’ Clark muttered.

‘Pff!’ Bruce huffed, rubbing a thumb along Clark’s jawline, his touch warm. He looked at the journalist. ‘Clark _Kent_ here is a reporter, just like you, and he has a terrible habit of being _right_ all the time.’

‘Clark Kent! You’re at the Daily Planet, aren’t you?’ she asked excitedly, turning her attention to Clark. ‘I’ve read, like, everything you’ve written. I am _obsessed_.’

‘Thanks?’

‘He’s cute,’ she added, leaning in a little closer, ‘like kind of like a dad, but y’know.’

She winked.

‘I don’t think anyone has ever called me _cute_ ,’ Bruce interjected, ‘but I will take all the compliments I can get. That said, Victoria – your name was Victoria, wasn’t it? – Clark and I need to get along with meeting all these –’ he waved haphazardly, ‘people, I _guess_. It was lovely meeting you, and if you need anything else, I’m sure one of my people would be happy to help.’

Not even Clark was able to tell how Bruce was able to conjure up the business card he handed over to the reporter. She smiled at them, and shook both their hands.

‘I thought that went well,’ Bruce said when they had moved far enough away to be out of earshot. ‘If she knows who _you_ are, she must be a decent writer, even if she’s been sent to this hellhole.’ 

Before Clark could answer, they were approached by someone who had maybe once made a bad deal with Wayne Enterprises, or maybe he had been fired from a job at Wayne Enterprises, or maybe it was just someone who didn’t really like Bruce. Bruce was polite and cruel in equal measure. Once the man had huffed and left, he sighed and pulled at his bowtie, ruining the messy knot Clark had tied hours ago.

‘I want to see how Dick’s doing. Will you be fine for a few minutes on your own? We can go upstairs if you don’t want to be left here.’

‘I should be fine.’ Clark glanced about the giant room. ‘There’s an exhibit on Triassic flora over there. I’ll go look at that.’

‘Are you serious? _Triassic flora_ ?’ He shook his head. ‘Go, have fun, I’ll find you in a few minutes. And if anyone is annoying, be rude to them. I _know_ your instinct is to be kind, but they won’t appreciate it, so don’t waste your time.’

Bruce squeezed Clark’s shoulder before he left.

Clark could summarise what he knew about triassic flora with two words: big plants. He walked through the exhibit, stopping to read a plaque or two now and then, but mostly enjoying the quiet, the stillness. While he was studying a ridiculously-sized recreation of a fern, he heard someone call his name.

‘Clark Kent! What are you doing here? Did you move from Metropolis?’

It took a couple of moments before he recognised the woman in front of him. He had interviewed her several years ago. She had been a librarian at the Metropolis Central Library and they had talked about the equalising force of libraries, the beauty of interlibrary loans, and the importance of cancelling your holds if you didn’t need them.

‘It’s Sarah Stevenson, right?’

‘Yup, that’s me. How are you, Mr Kent? I’ve never had anyone so nice interview me. Everyone in Gotham is so _pushy_.’

‘You live in Gotham now?’

‘Yeah. I got a job as the director of public services for the new main library. I’m technically in charge of this entire _party_. Which reminds me – you didn’t tell me what you’re doing here! If I’d known you were coming I would have let you interview me.’

‘I’m, uh, I’m here on a date.’ Clark felt the blush brush over his cheeks. ‘So just personal business, not business business. No interviews today.’

He had heard Bruce’s quiet footsteps, his steady heart beat and the lingering smell of his cologne. Still, he jumped when he felt his hand against his elbow, the brush of his lips against his ear.

‘Speak of the devil,’ he laughed a little, touching Bruce’s hand by way of greeting before gesturing at Sarah. ‘Bruce, this is Sarah Stevenson. She’s the director of public services at the new Gotham main library. I interviewed her back when she worked in Metropolis. Sarah, this is Bruce Wayne, my – um – date.’

‘Boyfriend, I’d like to hope.’ Bruce’s smile was radiant, broad, and his fingers dwarfed the librarian’s when they shook hands. ‘Ms Stevenson, the pleasure is mine.’

‘Mr Wayne, lovely to meet you.’ She was a lot more level with him than many other women Clark had watched Bruce speak to throughout the night. Maybe she wasn’t impressed by the Bruce Wayne _shtick_. Maybe she was just not interested. ‘I haven’t been in Gotham long, but I’ve heard much about your generosity when it comes to the arts.’

‘Mm, yes, I do like _art_.’ The way Bruce looked Clark over from the corner of his eye should be criminal. ‘Speaking of which, I believe I have something for you.’

In one fluid movement, he pulled a cheque book and fountain pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, scribbling numbers and a signature. He neatly folded the cheque before returning the book and pen to his pocket, and handed over the slip of paper.

‘For the library,’ he gleamed.

She unfolded the cheque and _that_ made her fluster, a brief gasp before she pressed her lips together and cleared her face.

‘This is very generous, Mr Wayne.’ Her eyes flickered down to the cheque and back to Bruce, back to Clark. ‘If you’d like, we – we don’t open until later next month, but we’ve got the new exhibition set up and there’s just some final building code checks that need to be done. You could come and visit it before opening, if you’d like? And you might write something about it for the _Planet_ , Clark?’

‘Oh, we’d be _delighted_ ,’ Bruce smiled. ‘I’ll take any excuse to trick Clark into visiting me.’

‘Doesn’t take a lot of tricking,’ Clark flushed when Bruce’s fingers draped themselves along the nape of his neck, fingertips in his hair. ‘What if I email you and we set up the details. Maybe next week sometime?’

‘Sounds perfect,’ Sarah smiled. She glanced out at the main room. ‘I guess I should get back there and not hide like – what do they call him, the bat guy?’

‘The Batman, I believe.’ Bruce supplied smoothly.

‘Right, hiding in the dark. Superman would never do that, huh, Clark?’ Sarah smiled.

‘Oh, he wouldn’t _dream_ of hiding, would he, baby?’

‘I guess he wouldn’t be very good at hiding, in that blue and red. But Lois Lane is the Superman expert, not me.’ Clark replied and tried a smile. ‘It was really nice seeing you again, Sarah. Good luck with the rest of the party and I look forward to visiting the library.’

‘I think we can leave now, unless you want to stay.’ Bruce removed his hand from Clark’s neck and looked over at him.

‘Yeah, let’s leave. It’s getting hot.’

‘Mm, it is. Let’s go.’

They were driven back to the hotel in silence with Bruce’s fingers resting lightly on Clark’s knee. Clark undid his own bow tie and focused on his own quick heartbeat.

‘How was that?’ Bruce asked once they were back in the suite, the door closed behind them. He had shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a hanger with one hand while the other was unbuttoning his waistcoat.

‘It was good. Fine. It was good, right? Did I do okay?’

Bruce chuckled, the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. He pulled the champagne from the mini fridge, eschewing the glasses on the bar and sloshing the wine into a coffee cup.

‘You were perfect, kid.’ Bruce drank deep from the mug. ‘Even got us an exclusive visit to the new library. Look at you _go_.’

‘You’re teasing me.’ Clark said, barely complaining. He’d rather have Bruce’s teasing than the coldness he sometimes gave him.

‘You’re big enough to take it,’ Bruce said. He removed his cufflinks and Clark was distracted by the delicate skin of his wrists. ‘I, however, have things to attend to. It has been a pleasant evening, Clark.’

‘Yeah, me too. Thank you for –’ and Clark hesitated, chewed on his lip as he tried to figure out _what_ he was thanking Bruce for, ‘a nice evening.’

A smile flickered over Bruce’s mouth. His lips were slightly wet from the champagne, and Clark found himself wondering if he could get away with swaying in for another kiss.

‘Don’t fly too high. You’ll ruin your suit.’ He kicked off his shoes with more force than Italian leather deserved. ‘Fly safe, Kansas.’

‘Sleep well, Gotham.’

Clark flew home, but it felt less like flying than Bruce’s lips on his had made him feel.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the new library, and a Kansas lunch with Martha and Dick.

Throughout Sunday, Bruce sent links to news stories about them without comment. Following the Gotham Gazette piece – written by the Vicky they had spoken to at the party – there was a slew of blog posts and short articles, all of which hit on the same three points. One: Bruce Wayne almost showed up on time for a gala. Two: Bruce Wayne is dating a man. Three: that man is the reporter Clark Kent. Although one or two pieces used a picture from earlier in the night – Bruce leaning against Clark’s ear to murmur something, a hand around his waist – most of them used pictures of them kissing.

Clark had somehow imagined that whoever the photographer was, they would take one picture and leave it at that. But there were at least a dozen different ones floating around. Clark found himself saving them all and pulled his phone out throughout the day to look at each one in detail. His favourite, he decided, was not one of the kiss. It was from afterwards, their foreheads tipped together. Bruce was cradling his neck and had twisted his fingers into Clark’s lapel. Clark was barely holding on to Bruce, one hand on his shoulder and the other resting where shoulder and neck meets. Their eyes were closed. Clark’s smile was wide, and there was a ghost of a smile on Bruce’s face.

Late in the afternoon, Bruce sent a message with his analysis of the situation.

_All in all, a good turnout._

Clark couldn’t help but agree.

* * *

On Monday morning, Clark was three minutes late to work. Lois was waiting for him at the entrance to the bullpen, and more or less dragged him to the conference room.

‘Oh Clark, you’ve really done it now,’ she said as she squeezed his hand and opened the door.

The entire newspaper staff seemed to be crammed into the rows of chairs, and every pair of eyes followed Clark as he walked towards one of the few empty chairs up front.

‘Kent, up here.’ Perry was sitting on the desk at the top of the room, and gestured for Clark to join him. ‘If you could be on time the next time we delay our morning briefing to have a meeting about you, that would be _greatly_ appreciated.’

Perry sounded far too tired for it to be five past nine on a Monday morning. Clark shifted as he walked up to join him. Dozens of pairs of eyes were trained on him. As Superman, he was used to people looking at him. As Clark Kent, he would rather not be seen.

‘Why is this meeting about me?’ Clark asked the room, and when Perry raised his eyebrows, it clicked. ‘Oh. Bruce.’

‘Yes. _Bruce_ .’ Perry turned to address the crowd in front of them. ‘As you have probably seen in the news, our intrepid farmboy Kent here has shacked up with the _Planet’_ s owner. Since I got in this morning, I have had no fewer than five people ask me how this affects the _Planet_ and Mr Kent’s continued employment, as this could easily be construed as a fundamental conflict of interest. However –’ and he waved about the stack of papers he had been thumbing through as he spoke, ‘I was informed about this weeks ago, and both Kent and Mr Wayne have filed all the necessary paperwork. Everything is as above board it can be. This means a few things for you lazy writers who try to fob off your boring tasks to someone else: no one is allowed to ask Kent to write anything even _tangentially_ related to Wayne or any of his businesses, their subsidiaries, and major competitors.’

Someone muttered: _doesn’t seem like there’s much he_ can _write about, then._

‘If you have a question, raise a hand.’ Perry threw a dirty look at the entry-level editor who had broken the silence. ‘Furthermore, this means that we, as a paper, need to be more careful than ever to prevent accusations of favouritism. You’re all writers with moral calibre, but be more cautious than ever. No fluff pieces. No sweeping things under the rug to save Kent’s feelings. But, at the same time: don’t go digging in Wayne’s business more than you need to. He still owns us, and if he gets mad about what you write, I can’t promise that I will be able to protect you. You’d probably be better off asking Kent for help, there. Understood?’

A susurration of _yes boss_. One perfectly manicured hand was raised.

‘Yes, miss Grant?’ Perry sighed the words.

‘Clark, how could you give the scoop of the _year_ to a rag like the _Gotham Gazette_?’ Cat Grant had scrunched up her nose in disgust, and was staring daggers at Clark.

‘I – I don’t really want to mix work and personal life.’

Lois couldn’t prevent the huff of a laugh, and Cat raised an eyebrow.

‘Didn’t stop you before.’

‘Bruce wanted to get something on the record and the _Daily Planet_ wasn’t covering the gala. And I’d rather not have you pry in my business, Cat.’

Cat exhaled, her mouth an _x_ of frustration.

‘Can I get _something_? I don’t need much. Just a comment on if Bruce Wayne’s bedhead is terrible or if he wakes up looking like a million bucks.’

‘Billions, actually,’ Jimmy interjected.

‘Everyone, stop this.’ Perry sighed. ‘I’m sure you all have questions, but please leave Mr Kent alone for the time being. If he wants to talk to you about his relationship with the best-known man in our sister city, he can talk to you on his own time. However, no one is allowed to pester him with questions. Is that understood?’ Another murmur of agreements, more chagrined this time. ‘Right, everyone except the writers out. I’ve got you in here already, let’s get done with the story pitches. Anyone who doesn’t have their notes with them, you’ve got five minutes.’

Clark was grateful for Perry’s edict and slinked into one of the vacated chairs, slumping next to Jimmy. Jimmy waggled his eyebrows at him.

‘So what fun did you get up to on Saturday?’ he teased.

‘I’ll rat you out, Jimmy, I swear to God.’ Clark groused. ‘What are you doing in the pitch meeting, anyway? You’re not a writer.’

‘Technically, I’m a photo- _reporter_ , which gives me the right to be in here. Plus it gives me first dibs on photography assignments. I’m turning a new leaf. I’m actually paying _attention_ these days.’

‘Oh, sure you are.’

With the five minutes up, Perry called the meeting to order and let each reporter run through their ideas for the week. He pushed back on some, reformed others to something more palatable, or refused the idea completely and assigned the writer something completely different. Lois’ suggestion for a piece on corruption in local government was accepted, with the proviso that nothing was published unless it had two secondary sources to back it up.

‘Kent? What about you?’ As though to give Clark some time to not be in the centre of attention, Perry had waited until every other reporter had been assigned their stories.

‘I’ve been offered an interview with the director of public services at the Gotham Public Library. The new main library opens in three weeks and she’s offered me an inside look.’

‘Did you meet her at that party?’

‘Yes, but I know her from before. Sarah Stevenson. I interviewed her a few years ago, and she said she would be interested in talking to someone from Metropolis about what Gotham’s doing to serve the public good.’ Clark paused. ‘Though I guess I should mention that Bruce gave a pretty big donation to the library, if that means I can’t do it.’

‘Perry?’ Lois shifted a little in her seat. ‘If we prevent Clark from writing about every place that Bruce Wayne has donated money to, there really wouldn’t be much for him left to write about.’

Perry frowned and considered.

‘Fine. Take Olsen with you.’ He jotted down notes in his reporter’s notebook. ‘I assume that this is something where your boyfriend is tagging along? Just make sure he doesn’t get in the way of your work, then.’

‘You got it, boss.’ Clark smiled with undeserved confidence. Bruce, and Bruce _Wayne_ more particularly, was an expert in getting in the way of Clark’s work.

Once they had left the conference room, Jimmy fist-bumped Clark’s shoulder.

‘You and me, reporting on books! Man, I’m so _psyched_.’ Jimmy shifted from one foot to another, nervous energy radiating through his body.

‘Please don’t embarrass me in front of Bruce.’ Clark asked.

‘Oh, no promises!’ Jimmy winked again, and disappeared off.

Clark found Lois at her desk a little later.

‘Thank you for sticking up for me. You didn’t have to do that.’

Lois cocked her head and smiled at him.

‘It was nothing. I’m glad I could help.’ She focused on Clark’s eyes. ‘Did Bruce give you those glasses?’

He touched the frame of the glasses, surprised at the question.

‘Oh, yeah. My old pair are apparently an affront to society and he wouldn’t stand for it.’

She laughed.

‘They’re nice. They look good on you.’

Clark returned her smile with a hand again on his glasses, shoving them up his nose. She was right. They were nice.

* * *

The train rolled into Gotham station on a rare sunny Thursday morning. Bruce was waiting for them at the end of the tracks, staying out of the way of the crowds rushing past him, leaning carelessly against a pillar with his hands in his pockets. When Clark approached, his smile moved from soft to sleazy, and when they were close enough, he snaked a hand onto his lapel, tugging him close.

‘Hey there,’ he said and kissed him, tracing one, two, three, four kisses on Clark’s mouth before he let him go. ‘How’s your week been?’

Clark licked his lips and shoved his hands in his back pockets and tried not to think about the blush burning over his face like a setting sun.

‘I’m good, good. How are you? It’s nice to see you.’

‘I missed you.’ Bruce’s smile was half-cocked, smug, and Wayne all over. He licked his lips, too, but unlike Clark’s nervous gesture, there was nothing cautious or unintentional about it. He winked at Clark and turned to Jimmy. ‘James Olsen, right? Pleasure meeting you.’

‘Mr Wayne, it’s a pleasure.’ Jimmy accepted the offered hand with both of his, shaking it with overexcited initiative. His camera bag started falling off his shoulder bag and he caught it with a surprised yelp.

‘Bruce, to my friends.’

Jimmy was shorter than Clark, but he had never considered _how_ much shorter until he saw Bruce turn his head to such a steep angle to make sure Jimmy met his eye and saw his almost-friendly smile.

‘So, Bruce, how did you get to know Clark? He’s being incredibly stingy with the details.’

Bruce laughed and started walking, the two journalists following him on either side. Bruce reached out his hand, trailing his fingers down Clark’s shoulder, his elbow, grazing the inside of his wrist. Unthinking (or it _seemed_ unthinking, but he refused to believe this was accidental), he hooked his index finger against Clark’s little finger. It was a ridiculous parody of hand-holding, but he still felt a flutter of butterflies in his stomach.

‘We’ve met a few times, really. Few years ago, then again. So I decided to chase him down.’

‘I wasn’t that hard to chase down,’ Clark mumbled.

‘Mmm, no. He’s surprisingly easy,’ Bruce said in Jimmy’s direction. Clark jerked his finger, not at all enough to hurt Bruce at all, but enough to chide him for the innuendo. ‘And he’s feisty, too.’

‘Feisty Kent, that’s what I always call him.’ Jimmy agreed, joking. (Clark had never been called feisty in his _life_.)

Jimmy and Bruce got on like a house on fire: Bruce’s comments straddling the profane and professional; Jimmy bouncing jokes off him like a beach volleyball team captain. As they walked, Bruce leading the way through Gotham, he searched with first his forefinger, soon joined by his middle finger, grasping another one of Clark’s fingers, then another. By the time they had reached the block where the new main library was, their hands were interlaced, Bruce’s thumb tracing patterns in the soft skin between Clark’s thumb and forefinger. Clark had been quiet almost the entire time, listening to Bruce and Jimmy chat easily. He always forgot that Jimmy came from old money – though not at all as old or as much as Bruce. They were discussing the golf courts set just outside of Gotham; summering in the Hamptons; weekend retreats on the riviera; pizza in tiny towns in Naples. 

‘Time for you to work your magic, honey.’

Bruce withdrew his hand so Clark had his hands free to call Sarah. A few minutes passed, where they approached the building, ducking under construction tape and staying clear of leftover debris. They were only a few feet from the door when it slammed open.

‘Sorry! They haven’t installed the door closer yet. It’s, uh, _loud_.’ She smiled apologetically and ushered them inside. ‘Welcome, welcome! Mr Wayne, Clark, nice to see you again. And you must be James Olsen. Delighted to meet you.’

‘Jimmy, actually.’ He corrected as he shook her hand.

‘So, I was thinking: we do the tour; I show you the exhibit. Jimmy, you can take photos… whenever you’d like? Like I told Clark, pretty much everything is ready. Well, not _that_ ,’ she gestured at the door.

‘Ms Stevenson, perhaps an odd question, but: any chance one of your librarians is here today? Barbara Gordon? I believe she works in cataloguing.’ Clark wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard Bruce be so carefully polite.

‘Oh, I don’t think so. Most of the librarians will start coming in next week, just to get their feet wet in the new location.’ She scrunched up her face. ‘We’ll pass the cataloguing section, though, so we can check. Do you know her?’

‘Oh, Barbara and I go way back.’ Bruce glanced over at Clark. ‘Not like that, stop it with the face.’

Clark protested and explained he was doing _nothing_ with his face, Jimmy laughed, Bruce winked, and the poor librarian looked between the three of them and seemed unable to decide on whose side she was on. She decided on a polite titter and a sympathetic smile to Clark.

‘She used to date my son. I haven’t kept up with her as well as I should.’ Bruce explained belatedly.

By then, they were already in the main atrium of the library. Looking up, five floors above them, a lustrous glass dome let in a pale natural light, with wide staircases wrapping the walls. Sarah took them through the entrance, pointing towards the future cafe and shop, leading them up the stairs. Sarah and Clark walked side-by-side, Clark scrawling notes as quickly as Sarah would speak, asking clarifying questions when necessary, scribbling corrective notes when needed. She spoke of the library with such pride, such love. Bruce and Jimmy trailed them, half-listening to Sarah’s explanations, occasionally chatting about other things. Jimmy would stop, on and off, to take a picture or five. Bruce would wait with him, or he would walk off and browse the shelves until Jimmy was ready. Once or twice he drew up alongside Clark and Sarah, and he brushed his fingers over Clark’s back, idly listening. 

‘Why do you use the Dewey decimal system? It’s the worst classification system by far.’ Bruce asked at one point. Jimmy was lying on his back, trying to get the angle right for a photograph of the childrens’ area.

Sarah grimaced.

‘It’s what people are used to. There was a trial at GCPL, years before I started, where one library shifted to using the LOC instead – that’s Library of Congress –’ she said to Clark as an aside, ‘but users found the system confusing and the letter-number combination off-putting. When the board decided to make all branches float their materials, they decided to give up on trying a different system of organising.’

‘What’s wrong with Dewey?’ Clark asked. That had always been what he was used to, and he had vivid memories of being a child, chanting the digits of a call number to find the book he was looking for in the tiny Smallville library.

‘It’s a fundamentally biased system that prioritises Western history and beliefs, created by a racist, anti-Semitic misogynist.’ Bruce punctuated his point by roughly poking at the call number of one of the books shelves close-by. Sarah reached over and aligned the books on the shelf.

‘Pretty much what Mr Wayne says, though I’d appreciate it if he didn’t mess with the books so. It’s an US-centric classification system, which means it’s difficult to use outside of the States without major changes or entire sections of the system staying unused. The headings are skewed, too. For instance, the 200s – Religion – is primarily focused on Christianity. I don’t work directly with the metadata, so please fact check these numbers, but I believe seven of the nine subdivisions are explicitly about Christianity, with the remaining two split between “general” books on religion and theology and “all other religions”.’ She grimaced again. ‘Off the record: it really is a bad system. But the overheads for changing all our materials are simply too expensive.’

‘Right.’ Clark pushed his glasses up his nose and caught up with his notes. ‘Another question: what’s “floating”?’

‘It’s what Superman does,’ Bruce said before stepping away, joining Jimmy again.

‘I think Superman _flies_ , actually.’ Sarah told Clark confidentially.

As they walked up yet another flight of stairs, she explained the principle of floating collections. Although items were purchased for specific branches, patrons could return it to whichever branch they wanted to, and it would be shelved on the shelves of that branch. It was a way, Sarah explained, to help rotate collections and to allow more serendipitous browsing. It prevented excessive overhead costs, allowing library assistants, pages, and volunteers to help patrons and support cataloguing efforts instead of having to spend hours upon hours sorting through returned items and sending them off to more than a dozen different branches.

‘Does Metropolis do this?’ Clark had always been a big proponent of the Metropolis public library, but he only ever went to the branch three blocks away from his apartment, and he almost only ever read in the library.

‘No no, MPL likes the idea of each book belonging in one very precise place.’

Sarah was easy to interview: she would go off on brief tangents that added enough details that Clark barely ever had to ask for clarification, and enough human interest that he knew he wouldn’t have to fluff the piece. She continued talking about the differences between the approaches the respective libraries had chosen, and Clark was barely able to keep up with the facts and figures she remembered from off the top of her head.

She took them to the main floor and knocked on a door with the plaque _B GORDON_ , but there was no response.

‘Sorry, she doesn’t seem to be in,’ Sarah said regretfully to Bruce, ‘but I can let her know you were asking about her?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll give her a call.’ Bruce smiled, a kinder smile than Bruce Wayne often offered. ‘I appreciate you checking for me.’

Finally, they returned to the ground floor, where Sarah walked them through the exhibit. It was a history of Gotham, tracking the highs and lows of the city since its foundation. Clark thought there were rather more lows than highs, but it was a good exhibit. The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched, barely visible, when he read the plaque about the works of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Clark threaded their fingers together and Bruce squeezed back.

After Jimmy snapped off another two dozen pictures of the library director, Clark thanked her and they said goodbye. On their way back to the station, Bruce bought the three of them coffee in that overpriced coffee shop he had sent him to after his suit fitting. The blue-haired barista waved at Clark with a two-finger salute before she made their drinks. Bruce and Jimmy chatted about nothing at all, and Clark was happy to just listen. It was nice to see Bruce act, well, _normal_ around someone. He had only met Lois a couple of times, and each time it had been slightly awkward, like she was unable to see him without his mask, and he was unable to see her as someone other than someone who knew his secret. With Jimmy, there wasn’t that problem. He was a civilian, a _real_ civilian, and Clark wanted to keep him that way.

They were almost at the station when Clark remembered.

‘Ma wants us to come for dinner, Bruce.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Bruce asked, his fingertips tapping the crosswalk button.

‘Yeah, she’d like to meet you. Properly, I mean.’

‘What if we do lunch instead?’ The request made sense. Bruce never liked to leave Gotham, as though his very leaving would cause some cataclysmic event that only he could fix. ‘Maybe next weekend. Perhaps Dick can come? I’d like them to meet.’

‘I’ll see if that works for her. I’m sure she’d love to meet Dick.’

‘Who’s Dick?’ Jimmy piped up, barely keeping up with them with his bag of cameras and the coffee cup in his other hand.

‘My son. The one who dated Barbara. He’s a detective out in Blüdhaven.’

‘Wow, that’s a tough gig.’

‘He performs admirably.’

They had reached the track for the Metropolis commuter. Bruce shook Jimmy's hand and reiterated how nice it had been to meet him. Bruce tipped Clark’s chin and kissed him, one arm around his waist. Clark returned the kiss, trying to find the right balance between enthusiastic (he was kissing Bruce Wayne, after all) and appropriate (he didn’t want to give Bruce the impression that he was kissing him for any reason other than to set up the narrative).

‘I’ll text you what ma says,’ he said when Bruce broke the kiss.

He rubbed his thumb over Clark’s jawline before he stepped away.

‘I look forward to it. I’ll check with Dick. And I’ll call you later.’

On the train back, Jimmy stared at Clark through narrowed eyes.

‘He’s nice.’ He finally declared. ‘I like him.’

‘I like him, too.’ Clark agreed. He focused on the notes in front of them, typing them up on a tablet as the train creaked its way back to Metropolis.

Later that night, he texted Dick to tell him that Bruce had said he was doing his job _admirably_. Dick was beside himself with delight.

* * *

The following Saturday, Clark rang the doorbell of the lakehouse. They had decided that it would make much more sense for Clark to arrive at the airfield with Bruce and Dick rather than showing up there on his own without a car. Alfred let him in with a short smile and apologised on behalf of the masters, both of whom were running late. _Trouble at the mill,_ he had explained with raised eyebrows. Clark wandered along the main entrance, stopping at paintings and trying to find Wayne family traits in the faces. The smirking eyes was one recurring theme, as was the almost-dimple in their chins.

‘I’m sorry we’re late. Alfred, did you pull the car up?’

Bruce appeared from a hallway, dressed impeccably as always, the collar bar gleaming in the light from the chandelier. His left arm was in a sling. Dick trailed behind him. 

‘Are you okay?’ Without meaning to, Clark took a couple of steps closer, and his hand was raised, as if to reach out. Bruce raised his hand, keeping their distance. 

‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s just a sprain.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Dick, do you have the wine?’

Dick raised the gift bag in his hand in response.

‘Hey Clark, nice to see you.’ Dick wrapped his free arm around him, a brief hug that Clark had not expected.

‘Hey. How are you?’

‘Oh, not bad. Thank you for letting me tag along.’

‘It was Bruce’s idea.’

He could see the momentary furrow of surprise between Dick’s eyebrows before he opened his car door and got in. Clark decided to eschew the front seat and slid into the backseat. Dick kept up the conversation as Bruce drove them to the airfield. He talked about what had been happening at work, about how his apartment was finally feeling like home after two years of living there, about how Damian was still the most infuriatingly sweet tortoise that ever existed.

Clark had never been on a private plane before. He’d been on the Javelin, which Batman had built seemingly single-handed a year ago, but that was less of a private plane and more of a private war machine. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the round tables and armchairs was not it. Bruce sank into one of them, grunting when he jammed his injured arm against the armrest.

‘What happened?’

Bruce glanced up, his gaze first on Clark and then towards the front of the plane, toward the closed cockpit. The plane had just touched off.

‘I tripped and fell down the stairs,’ he explained in his jovial Bruce Wayne voice. At Clark’s raised eyebrows, he sighed. ‘I was slow. It’s fine. Like I said, it’s just a sprain.’

The flight was a comfortable hour and a half, spent mostly in silence after Bruce announced he needed to catch up on some work and pulled out a tablet and a pair of earbuds. Dick seemed content to mess with his phone – though Clark was wondering how he had signal – and Clark settled his forehead against the window and let his thoughts drift as the clouds floated past them.

They touched down just before noon, and Bruce took the keys from the concierge waiting at the airfield. With Bruce driving, Clark took the front passenger seat, and Dick squeezed into the backseat. Clark had meant to give directions, but Bruce drove to the farm with the easy confidence of someone who had visited dozens of times. He remembered, then, that his mother had mentioned, back when he first came back, that Bruce Wayne ( _would you imagine!_ ) had visited her while he was gone.

Martha was waiting on the front porch for them, hunched over the railing and spying the front road.

‘Clark!’ He gathered her in his arms, lifting up from the earth and spinning her around. She laughed, like she’d been laughing since he first learned to do this, and kissed his cheek. ‘I’ve missed you, son.’

‘I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long.’

‘You’re here now.’ She rubbed the ball of her thumb over his cheekbone, smiling at him. After another few precious seconds of his mother’s breath against his ear, she withdrew, her hands at his elbows, smiling. She smiled. ‘Bruce.’

Bruce accepted the embrace with surprising ease, leaning into the hug as though he were used to it.

‘You know you could just come and visit me without all the silly excuses.’ She smiled at him, her hands on either side of his face, studying him. ‘You seem well.’

‘I am well,’ Bruce agreed, and as if on cue, he bumped his arm when he disentangled himself from Martha. ‘Getting old, but I’m getting along.’

‘Tut-tut, Bruce. You need to be careful.’ She touched the elbow of his injured arm and turned her attention to Dick. ‘And you’re Dick Grayson. I’m so happy you could come out. Bruce talks about you constantly.’

‘He what?’ Dick asked, confused, as she pulled him into an embrace. Bruce only shrugged at him when he raised his eyebrows at him.

‘You’re taller than I had imagined. I’m Martha.’

‘I know. Thank you for letting me come along. I appreciate it.’

‘Of course, Dick. You’re family now, or that’s what the boys are telling me.’ She winked. ‘Come inside, it’s still chilly. Clark, could I ask you to take a look at the truck later? It’s been making a funny sound and I don’t want to take it into the shop unless I really have to.’

‘I could take a look at it now, if you’d like, Mrs Kent.’

Clark blinked at Bruce.

‘Oh, would you? I’d so appreciate it, sweetheart. Maybe don’t wear that nice suit. Old Betty has a tendency to spout oil at anyone who looks at her funny.’

‘I’ll be careful, I promise.’ Surprisingly gracefully, Bruce slipped out of his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his uninjured hand. ‘Keys?’

‘In the glove compartment. Bruce, we’ll be in the kitchen, getting lunch ready. You know where the washroom is if you need it. And if you need any tools, just shout. Clark’ll get them for you.’

‘I’m sure he will.’ Bruce called over his shoulder as he walked over to the car.

‘What a relief,’ Martha said as she led them to the kitchen, ‘that rumbling’s been bothering me for _weeks_.’

‘You should’ve called me, Ma.’

‘Oh, I know, but I didn’t want to bother you. You’ve been so frightfully busy. I saw those photographs in the news, by the way. Your old schoolteacher, Mrs Barker, commented on them when I saw her at the diner.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Oh, nothing much.’ In the kitchen, Martha was puttering from stove to the counters, checking on the puttering pot and chopping up herbs. ‘That she wasn’t surprised; that you were always such a gentle child; that she hoped you weren’t with him for the money.’

‘I mean, he kind of _is_.’ Dick said. He had pulled out two chairs and was lounging in one, his feet propped up on the other. ‘Or maybe it’s more like dad is with Clark for the money.’

‘I guess that’s true. Dick, could you please take your feet off my chair? I had them re-upholstered last year, and I don’t want to have to go through that hassle again.’ Martha hadn’t even turned around, and Dick grumbingly moved his feet. ‘Clark, will you help me with the potatoes?’

‘You got it.’

‘Do you want me to help with anything?’ Dick asked doubtfully, as though he knew that asking to help was the right thing to do, but he was uncertain whether he’d be able to do anything she asked of him.

‘Hmm, we’re having whipped cream with the cake. Could you whip it up? I don’t have an electric whisk, I’m afraid.’

Clark could have used his superspeed to get the potatoes peeled in seconds, but there was something restful about the manual labour. He stood over the sink, letting the peelings drop in the bowl his mother had set out for him, and while he peeled, he watched Bruce working on the car through the window. Most of what Bruce was doing seemed to be leaning over the hood, poking and pulling, then frowning and moving on to a different section. At one point, he lay on his back and shimmied part-way under the car. Clark winced when Bruce stood up again, the silk back of his waistcoat dirtied with dust.

‘Hey Martha,’ Dick said. ‘What you said about him talking about me – was that real?’

‘Yes,’ Martha threw a confused frown at Dick, ‘of course it was.’

‘Huh.’

‘You and Jason, both.’

The sound of the metal whisk against the plastic bowl had been a constant for the past several minutes stopped, and the sudden silence was deafening. Clark glanced over at Dick. He looked drawn, pale, and suddenly much younger than he had before.

‘Bruce’s talked to you about Jason?’ he croaked.

‘Yes, I’m not sure, what –’ Martha frowned, looking from Clark to Dick to Bruce, still working on the truck in the driveway. ‘Doesn’t he talk about Jason?’

‘No, ma, he doesn’t.’ Clark said, as Dick looked physically pained and in no shape to answer himself. ‘It took me months of knowing him before he even _mentioned_ him. If it wasn’t for the suit in the cave, I don’t think it would ever have come up.’

‘Suit in the cave?’

‘He’s got Jay’s suit – the one he died in – in a fucking glass case so he can stare at it whenever he wants to feel bad about himself. Y’know, for that or all the other shit he’s done. He never talks about Jason. Why did he talk to _you_?’

‘Dick, your tone.’ Clark could understand his frustration and fury, but at the same time, his mother didn’t deserve to have that tone directed at her. (He wondered if this was what Bruce dealt with always.)

‘Dick, honey.’ Martha sat down on the chair next to Dick, reached out with her hands palms-up. He placed his hands in hers after a moment. ‘I didn’t know, I’m sorry. He used to come here, back when – when Clark was gone. He would listen to me when I talked about Clark. He’d tell me about Jason. Maybe he – thought that it was safe talking to me, because I don’t know him, and I’m just – someone who also lost a son.’ She paused and squeezed his hands. ‘I think he’s scared. And I think he’s worried about you.’

‘Bruce has never been worried about anyone.’ Dick said without venom.

‘You know that’s not true.’ Martha said with all the confidence of a mother.

Outside, Bruce was starting the car, listening to the engine with his head cocked. Clark reached out his senses to hear the purring of the machine, free of any unexpected rumblings. He didn’t know what had been wrong with the car, but it seemed like Bruce had fixed it.

‘I guess.’ Dick said at last, and he didn’t complain when Martha wrapped him in an embrace.

Potatoes peeled, Clark brought the pot to a boil – heat vision sometimes came in handy – and dumped the tubers into the water. Bruce was making his way back to the house. He washed off before coming into the kitchen, and Dick had started whipping the cream again.

‘You’ve got dirt on your back, turn around.’ Clark ran his hand over Bruce’s back, shoulder to shoulder and then moving down, doing his best to focus on the dust he was trying to displace and not the strong muscles hiding under layers of cloth. ‘There, much better.’

Bruce grimaced – almost a smile – instead of thanking him.

‘Mrs Kent, I got it working. It was just some loose wires. I think you’ll have to take it to a shop soon, though. Your drive belt is going to need to be replaced. It’s fine for another few thousand miles, but keep it in mind.’

‘Oh Bruce, I could kiss you.’ And she did, planting a soft peck on his cheek, on her tiptoes to reach. Clark forgot sometimes just how _large_ Bruce was.

‘It was nothing. I was happy to help. Is there anything else I can do to be useful?’

‘Sweetheart, you’ve done plenty. Sit down, rest. You could open the wine if you want. I assume you brought something excellent and unpronounceable as usual.’

Clark was amazed at how easily his mother could make Bruce smile. He did as she asked, uncorking the bottle and filling the four glasses on the dining room table. Two glasses in each hand, he handed one to each person in turn, swirling the wine in his own when everyone had theirs.

‘Clark said you were making a roast, so I thought this would go. And I don’t think _Brunello_ is too hard to pronounce.’

‘Thank you, love,’ Ma said and placed her wine glass on the top of the fridge, next to where she was puttering with the stove. ‘There’s another twenty minutes before lunch is ready. Clark, what if you do a tour of the house?’

Bruce had already seen the house, Clark knew, but he still said all the necessary comments and compliments when Clark walked them through it. Dick was an excited audience, distracted by the photographs on the wall. _You were so small!_ He croaked at the picture of a toddler Clark, cuddling a toy train. _Were you as strong then?_ For each room, Clark was able to share a story – from “a little embarrassing” to “red as a beet” – about his difficulty to control his powers when he was small and the myriad of times furniture had to be replaced because he had broken it. Dick laughed at the stories and even Bruce smiled. Once they had gone through the house, he took them outside and pointed out the sights: the barn where he had gotten into trouble more than once; the old Ford pick-up that Bruce had repaired and which had taken Clark both to his first date and his father’s funeral; the crops of corn that spread forever.

‘You really love it here.’ Bruce said when Clark finally fell sileng. He had brought his wine glass along, swirling the liquid and taking minute sips.

‘It’s home.’ Clark replied and frowned through his glasses. He had put them back on before they stepped outside. He’d taken them off when they had first arrived at the farm, happy to blur the lines between _Clark Kent_ and _Superman_ . Although he was _from_ Krypton, this was home. This tiny farm with its run-down barn and a truck that was older than him.

None of them said anything, enjoying the view and wine. Soon enough, Martha called them in for lunch. 

They fit snugly in the dining room, with Bruce and Dick on Clark’s side and his mother across from him. She doled out potatoes and Sunday roast to each in turn. Both Clark and Dick smothered their plates with sauce and jelly, while Bruce was satisfied with a small dollop of each. He ate carefully and slowly, once pausing his meal to chide Dick for shovelling food down his throat.

‘You’ll get a stomach ache,’ he said, almost softly.

They talked about very little, but the conversation flowed naturally and easily. If Clark hadn’t known better, he would have thought this was the hundredth time they had sat down together, not the first. It felt, he realised with a swooping drop of his stomach, like family. He looked from Dick to Bruce, both of them all sharp features and shocks of dark hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Bruce so at ease, a small almost-constant smile hiding in the dimple of his chin. Dick smiled, too, but there was a coiled anxious energy in his shoulders. Clark wondered when he would blow.

‘I wish Jason was here.’ Dick said suddenly.

Something flashed over Bruce’s face, something wild and desperate, before his face turned smooth again.

‘He would’ve been unbearable.’

‘I _know_ that. But I wish he was here.’

Bruce swirled his wine, now on his second glass.

‘Me too.’ he finally agreed before taking a long swig.

Dick stared at his adoptive father for several long seconds before he seemed to decide that this was the closest he’d get to him actually talking about Jason. 

Clark’s mother cut the tension by telling the table about when a herd of lesser prairie chickens had decided to settle in the barn two winters ago, and the trouble she had gone through to get them to move somewhere else. Everyone knew she was telling this to distract them from their previous conversation, but no one said anything, and no one seemed to mind.

‘So, Clark. Bruce.’ Martha finally said, setting down her wine and looking at Bruce to her left. ‘How is your little plan going? When will you actually get married? I would appreciate it if I could know _ahead_ of time.’

‘Not for a while, yet, Mrs Kent. An engagement within a month of public dating is laughable if you are young, and highly suspect when you’ve reached my age.’ Bruce said, placing his knife and fork in a four o’clock position on his plate. ‘If we count from what would be our first date, we are just about at six weeks, but just about two weeks since anyone really knew. Another couple of months, I’d think, before I propose in some garish high-society context. If that, Clark, sounds acceptable.’

Clark gaped a little, surprised that Bruce would ask for his input. This far, Bruce had set the pace, set the tone, set everything. All Clark had had to do was show up and pretend.

‘That sounds fine. Don’t make it embarrassing. Don’t, I don’t know, hire a flash mob to propose or something.’

‘ _Are_ there still flash mobs?’ Dick mused. ‘I thought they were just a shared hallucination in the late 2000s.’

‘If you want embarrassing, I’ll propose to you right in the _The Daily Planet_ office. How much has Cat been harrassing you for an interview, anyway?’

‘Perry said that anyone who hassles me is getting fired, so not at all. Well, once.’ Clark frowned, remembering his conversation with Cat at the coffee station the day before. ‘Okay, twice.’

‘She’s been calling my office every day for two weeks, practically begging for an interview.’ Bruce sounded amused. ‘She’s still furious that someone else got a scoop that she thinks that she, by virtue of knowing you, is entitled to.’

‘Please don’t let yourself be interviewed by her,’ Clark asked, ‘She’s great, but I’ll never live it down. She’s barely able to keep it together around me as it is.’

Bruce laughed. Dick rested his chin on his closed fist and studied the two men at the table.

‘Actually, I’m curious – what _will_ you be doing once you tie the knot? Will you have to move in together?’

‘We haven’t really discussed that,’ He admitted. Bruce shifted in his seat. ‘But I assume that _Mr Wayne_ has thought it through.’

‘You’ll have to come to the estate once or twice a week, just to keep up appearances. The first few months, at least, before the press realises that domesticity doesn’t sell. The rest of the time you can spend in your – _hm_.’

‘Oh, _that_ is a bad sound. What’s eating you, B?’ Dick grinned, poking his fork in his father’s general direction.

‘You have to move, Clark.’ Bruce said with finality.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your apartment is ratty, ugly, and terrible. I’ll buy you a condo.’

At the same time, Martha coughed in surprise and Clark sputtered in protest.

‘You can’t – you can’t just decide that – come on, Bruce, you can’t just – _buy me a condo_? That’s ridiculous, you can’t do that for me.’

‘I’ve done more expensive things for people I’ve cared much less about,’ Bruce replied and Clark was distracted for a moment at his admitting that he _cared_ for Clark, before he remembered the conversation they were actually having. Before he could open his mouth to argue back, Bruce spoke again. ‘And do you really think anyone would believe that _Bruce Wayne_ would let his partner live in such a hovel?’

‘Bruce, it’s too much.’ Clark had to put his foot down _somewhere_.

Dick was watching the two, head swivelling to follow their debate.

‘Either we get you a condo in Metropolis or you move into the lakehouse. If you want to sell this, Clark, those are the options.’ Bruce took a bite and chewed as he waited for Clark to respond. ‘Your commute – by car – from the lakehouse to Metropolis would be an hour each way, and it wouldn’t be safe for you to fly. A condo is much more reasonable.’

Clark poked at his peas.

‘We buy it together, then.’

‘What, with what savings?’ Bruce scoffed, but he still somehow said it in a way that Clark found endearing rather than frustrating.

‘Well, we’ll get a mortgage. We do what normal people do. Normal people get mortgages.’

‘A mortgage?’ Bruce said the word like it tasted bad.

‘Yes, I’ll agree to us buying a condo if we get a mortgage. And we buy it together. None of this “I’ll buy you a condo” crap. And I get to have a say. I don’t want some chrome monstrosity that looks like an abandoned modern art museum.’

Three pairs of eyes were fixed on Bruce as he considered. He finished the last of his wine and replaced the glass on the off-white table cloth.

‘Fine.’ He finally said.

‘I’ll help you move,’ Dick offered. ‘It shouldn’t be difficult as obviously Bruce will buy you all new furniture.’

‘Hey, I like my furniture!’ Clark complained, even though most of it was second- or fifth-hand, with the remaining pieces split between IKEA and the Target clearance aisle. Bruce shrugged.

‘We can decide later,’ He smoothed over. ‘Now, Mrs Kent, I believe you said something about dessert?’

‘ _Martha_ , Bruce.’ Clark’s mother insisted, although she had to know Bruce would never yield. ‘And yes, we’ve got apple cake with whipped cream. Is everyone ready? Everyone, pass me your plates. There are no butlers here.’


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Justice League work overtime. Bruce and Clark get their mortgage papers ready, and look at apartments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels like it is just on the cusp of being filler-y and I’m not convinced of how well it stands on its own, so you’re getting two chapters today. Either way: enjoy!

On Monday, Bruce sent a text outlining everything he needed from Clark for the mortgage application. On Tuesday, aliens attacked.

They were enormous Lovecraftian beasts, more tentacles and ooze than anything else. They were hard to kill and as though designed for spewing poisonous bile onto innocent bystanders. For a week and a half, the Justice League fought tooth and claw with the monsters, barely keeping up with the new opponents spilling from the sky. They seemed to attack in waves, entering the Earth’s atmosphere in the early evenings and withdrawing in the mid-morning. They clustered around the North American continent, with TV pundits speculating that these aliens were attracted by the other extraterrestrial beings confirmed to live in the United States.

Batman, Cyborg, and Aquaman protected the Eastern seaboard. Wonder Woman and the Flash took care of the Western coast. Superman kept Canada clear. It took thirty minutes for Clark to realise that they were allergic to the sun, tolerating only the pale morning beams and shying away from anything bright and warm. It took three days for anyone else in the League to figure out how to get anything close to Clark’s heat vision. He didn’t quite understand all the details Batman explained over the comm, his voice harsh and tired (and Clark could hear _Bruce_ in a way he had never been able to hear before, the quiet exhaustion and loud frustration), but it had something to do with the Batmobile, strobe lights, and the abandoned Gotham power plant. Soon enough, they were making headway, killing monsters quicker than the reinforcements could arrive. 

The creatures gave up on Canada first. Maybe it was Superman. Maybe it was the brightness of summer that scared them off. For several days, he darted between the coasts and everything in between, picking off the tentacled beings that were slipping out from the others’ grip, keeping the urban areas clear of carcasses and poison.

Then there was a lull. For twenty hours, there was nothing. Superman set his feet on the ground, quiet next to where Batman was leaning against the Batmobile in the cave. He was spitting blood and swaying slightly, his cowl pushed back and his hair in his face. The black makeup around his eyes was matted and streaked with sweat. Clark wasn’t sure if Bruce had ever looked quite this beautiful and damaged and he couldn’t guess the last time he was this tired. Looking up at Clark, his eyes focused and unfocused, and he opened up his mouth to say something, and fainted.

When the rest of the league arrived to the cave, Bruce was awake. He had stomped off when he regained consciousness, after shrugging off Clark’s concern with a terse _I’m fine_ and marching off to the showers. The rest of them sat in awkward silence as they listened to the shower run, before Arthur decided to break the silence.

‘So, Supes, how’s matrimony?’

Diana glared at him.

‘We’re not married, so I wouldn’t know.’ Clark didn’t want to be rude, but he was so _tired._ He hadn’t slept for days and even though he didn’t need a _lot_ of sleep, ten days without any left him prickly.

‘A friend of mine at work has a picture of the two of you in her cubicle,’ Barry offered, chewing on his tenth energy bar. ‘It’s weird.’

‘Weird that she has a picture of people she doesn’t know or weird that _you_ know them?’ Victor asked.

Barry considered this as he peeled yet another protein bar from its wrapper.

‘Both.’ He finally decided.

‘They were nice pictures,’ Diana said and reached a hand across the table, stroking over Clark’s fingers and smiling with the warmth of a million suns. He wasn’t sure how the tentacle vampires hadn’t just disintegrated from her grin. ‘You looked very handsome and your suit, Clark, was wonderful. And I liked your glasses. Are they new?’

Clark blushed and turned his hand so he could close his fingers around Diana’s. She was everything he had ever wished to be.

‘Bruce vetoed my old pair.’

‘I dunno, I always kinda liked them,’ Barry scrunched up his nose. ‘They kind of had that romantic comedy pre-makeover vibe. Like Mia Thermopolis or, whatshisface, the hot guy from _Love Actually_?’

Everyone turned to stare at Barry. Moments later, there was the unmistakable sound of Italian soles against unhewn stone.

‘Has anyone been able to figure out what they were? Diana? Superman?’ Bruce was still buttoning his shirt with one hand, some kind of green juice in the other hand. Clark wonders when Alfred had snuck down to leave it for him. Bruce hadn’t combed his hair after his shower and it fell messily into his eyes. The skin around his eyes was a deep purple, all sleeplessness and bruises. Clark wanted to touch him.

‘No one on Themyscira knows about anything like this.’

‘There’s nothing in the Kryptonian database.’

Bruce frowned at them both.

‘Victor, anything from you?’

‘Nothing in any source I can access.’ Victor shook his head. 

Then an alarm sounded.

‘What the _fuck._ ’ Arthur muttered as he got up and grabbed his trident.

Across the map of the Western Hemisphere displayed on the Batcomputer, a steady stream of red X:s was popping up.

‘They were laying _eggs_ ,’ Diana whispered, sudden realisation dawning.

Bruce looked at the screen for a second, before abruptly turning on his heel and beginning to strip.

Within seconds, Alfred was there, rushing down the stairs.

‘Master Bruce, you are _not_ going out again. You are in no condition to fight anything. You have three broken ribs and your arm still hasn’t recovered, not to mention the fact that you have maybe slept fifteen hours in the last week.’

‘I am _fine_ , Alfred.’ Bruce insisted as Alfred skirted around him. ‘It’s just eggs. They’re not hatching yet.’

‘Yes, that big nasty alarm was an “everything is alright” sound, right?’ Alfred said scornfully and grabbed Batman’s cowl and pressed it to his chest. ‘I am not giving this back until you have been in bed for twelve hours.’

‘Give. It. Back.’

‘No.’

‘Alfred, I _need_ to go out. You are not my jailer and you can’t stop me from going out.’

Bruce was half-dressed in the Batsuit now, and in spite of the argument he kept attaching his armour with focused precision. Neither of the two men seemed to care about the fact that they had an audience to their fight.

‘Master Bruce, you are almost fifty years old and you are acting like a spoiled child. You are not going out. Your team can handle this without you.’

‘This is unreasonable. I am fine.’ Bruce said again through gritted teeth, glancing back at his audience.

‘I dunno, three broken ribs sounds pretty bad.’ Barry frowned, as though ready for a dressing down for that comment.

‘Yeah, you’re only human, bud.’ Arthur had his hands behind his head and was smiling wide.

Bruce ground down his teeth so hard that Clark was surprised he didn’t break a molar. Their eyes met. On the one hand, Bruce’s body was battered from the week’s fights, and Clark had winced when he had seen his bruised ribs. On the other hand, he felt he owed it to Bruce to be on his side. Love was utterly stupid.

‘What if Nightwing comes?’ he asked Alfred.

‘I don’t _need_ Nightwing to come.’ Bruce spat. 

‘Who the fuck is this Nightwing dude?’ Arthur asked.

Alfred looked from Clark to Bruce, considering.

‘He’s the acrobat-y one in spandex. Y’know, the really hot one.’ Barry offered.

‘He’s my _son_.’ Bruce explained with a furious glare at Barry.

‘Yes, if Master Dick comes along you can go out. But you are not to leave his side.’ Alfred determined as both Barry and Arthur were sputtering against the knowledge that Bruce had a _son_ and that his son _also_ fought crime.

Bruce exhaled.

‘Fine. I’ll call him.’ He grabbed his cowl from Alfred’s now-slack fingers and marched to the computer, punching the keyboard with unnecessary force.

Dick agreed to come. When Alfred stared Bruce down for offering to pick him up in Blüdhaven – presumably correctly assuming that Bruce would drive off without picking him up – Clark offered to pick him up instead. They flew with Dick’s arms around Clark’s neck, his warm laugh ghosting over Clark’s jaw. Despite the danger of the situation, Nightwing was smiling when he landed in the cave. His presence seemed to rejuvenate the rest of the team, his enthusiasm giving them the energy to go out and fight again. They had to destroy the eggs before they hatched, and none of them knew how long they had.

It took them another week to clean everything up. Their debrief was quick and perfunctory, no one up for water cooler chat. Clark had never been this tired. He went home to his apartment and slept for fourteen hours.

* * *

_I’ve got all the mortgage papers. Could I come by and drop them off?_

Clark leafed through the manila folder on his desk. Tax returns, pay stubs, rental history, a letter from Perry stating that Clark Kent was a long-time employee who had no plans on leaving. He sipped his coffee – his third cup even though it was just ten o’clock – and waited for Bruce to get back to him.

_Three pm. Bring me a coffee._

The day dragged until 2.35 came along, when he ducked out of the office with a grin at Lois and the hope that Perry wouldn’t notice that he left an hour and a half early. He flew to Gotham and chatted with the barista who started preparing their drinks without him even needing to order. (She seemed to have decided that Clark was the sort of guy who preferred just a plain vanilla latte, no fancy frills, and he was perfectly fine with that. She still griped about Bruce’s order, but she did it with a slanted grin.)

‘Clark Kent, isn’t it?’ A man asked when Clark exited the elevator at 2.58pm. He reached out a hand. ‘Lucius Fox. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Oh, Mr Fox! Bruce speaks highly of you.’ Clark accepted the hand after precariously stacking one coffee cup on the other.

‘Not as highly as he speaks of you, I’m sure.’ Lucius smiled like he was in on a secret. ‘I understand the two of you have had a busy few weeks. Bruce was telling me he was battling a summer flu. I figured you might have had something similar.’

‘Uh, something like that.’ He knew that Lucius knew about Batman, but he had no idea if he knew about Superman. ‘Just bringing him a coffee to cheer him up.’

‘You’re a very attentive boyfriend, Mr Kent.’

Clark laughed slightly, not sure where they stood. Before he had the chance to reply, the door to Bruce’s office opened and the man himself peeked out.

‘Clark, there you are. I was wondering why you were late.’ He glanced over at his secretary. ‘Melissa, what’s my afternoon looking like?’

‘You have a 3.30 with a senior business analyst who wants to run a proposal by you, and a 4.15 with John K – he wants to talk about this year’s Christmas bonuses.’

Bruce frowned.

‘Postpone the 3.30 until tomorrow. John can come, but I don’t understand why he wants to discuss Christmas. It’s only May, after all.’ He turned back to Clark. ‘One of those coffees for me, honey?’

‘That sounds like my cue to leave. Mr Kent, very nice to meet you.’ Lucius nodded at Clark and Bruce in turn and called for the elevator.

Bruce brushed his lips against the spot where Clark’s jawline met his ear when he took his coffee.

‘Did you bring any work to do?’ Bruce asked, all business, once the door was closed. He took a deep draught of his coffee.

‘Yeah, I’ve got some stuff. Why?’

‘I’m going to take a nap.’

‘I haven’t seen you in more than a week. I thought we could catch up.’ Clark could hear himself, needy and selfish.

‘Clark, we saw each other the other day. I’ll wake up at 4 pm. I’m sure you’ll find something to do.’

Clark wanted to complain, to say that seeing _Batman_ was not seeing _Bruce_ , and he enjoyed one’s company a lot more than the other. But, no, he decided. It was too honest. Too close to the truth. And Bruce looked tired. The make-up was well-applied, but the moment the door had closed he had slouched, no longer carrying himself with the cocky arrogance that Bruce Wayne specialised in. He ran a hand through his hair, strands falling in his face. After another sip of coffee, he lay down on the sofa, closed his eyes, and fell asleep at once.

It was impressive, really. Clark tiptoed to the armchair perpendicular to Bruce and sat down. He had intended to work, proofreading one of Lois’s best pieces in months, but he found himself glancing up every few sentences, watching Bruce’s sleeping face. He had always assumed, for no reason other than that it _felt_ like it made sense, that Bruce was a restless sleeper, haunted by nightmares and insomnia. But here, now, he slept deeply, his face blank and his breath even. Maybe he was a calm sleeper. Maybe he was too tired to be restless.

Clark worked at a snail’s pace, allowing himself to look over at Bruce now and then. Never enough to stare, but long enough that his eyes could trace his cheekbones, the grey peppered in his hair, the elegant fingers spread across his rising and falling chest. At four o’clock exactly, Bruce’s eyes snapped open. He stayed on the sofa, but tilted his head toward Clark. For a crazed second, Clark thought he was tipping his chin up for a kiss.

‘Thank you for the coffee,’ he said instead.

‘For sure. It’s got to be pretty cold now, though. I could heat it up for you?’ Clark gestured at himself. Bruce’s face twisted in amusement.

‘Reheated coffee is never good. I’ve got ice.’ He rummaged in the minifridge behind his desk, dumping a good measure of ice in a cocktail glass and splashing the coffee over it. ‘I should’ve asked for it iced, I guess.’

‘How are you feeling?’

Bruce shrugged.

‘Better. Give me a week and I’ll be right as rain.’ He sipped his coffee and sifted through papers on his desk. ‘If it’s a busy week it might take longer. But I’m hanging on.’

‘Your ribs?’

‘Getting there. Doctor says no strenuous activity,’ and it was almost like he couldn’t help himself, glancing up and winking at Clark, ‘but I’m recovering as expected.’

Clark chewed on his lower lip.

‘You need to stop being so reckless.’

Bruce stilled. Exhaled.

‘You are not my keeper, Clark.’ He said the words carefully and without tone, but Clark could hear the furious undercurrents. They could easily fan the flames of the fight, yell at each other in an argument they both knew they would never resolve until reality hit and Bruce was pulled away to a business meeting.

‘If it’s a busy week–‘ what Clark meant was: if Riddler or Joker or Dr Fries or Harley or Penguin come out – ‘let me help.’

Bruce looked at him, his lips pressed and his eyes narrowed. He hesitated.

‘I’ll think about it.’ He finally said.

Clark decided that had to be enough.

‘Here are the papers. What more do you need?’

Bruce filed through the documents, pulling out Clark’s latest tax return and studying it, the crease between his eyebrows deep.

‘Is that what you make at the _Planet_?’ He asked, holding the paper out and resting his thumb under one of the IRS-printed boxes.

‘Yeah, it’s an OK salary for a journalist without a journalism degree.’

He never liked to talk about money with Bruce. Bruce spent money like it was a drug, signing cheques for thousands of dollars without a second thought, giving outrageous tips on twenty-dollar-meals, purchasing suits for one-time uses, and never worrying about running out. On days when Clark felt mean, he asked himself if Bruce even understood how money works, if he knew how dependent others were on the slightest fraction of what he considered everyday change. How did Bruce feel, making more in a week than many would make in a lifetime? On mean days, Clark couldn’t imagine he cared. On good days, on the days when Batman was heroic, not cruel, he could see that Bruce understood, that he wanted to help, that he cared, that he _wanted_ to understand.

But Bruce Wayne was so damn frustrating.

‘You should ask for a raise,’ was all he said, filing the document back in the pile.

‘I don’t know about that.’ The idea of asking for a raise was embarrassing. That his connection with Bruce would make it that much more likely for Perry to accept it only made it worse. He decided to tease instead. ‘I thought you said you were going to keep me comfortable?’

‘I thought _you_ said you didn’t need me,’ Bruce replied.

( _Didn’t need me_ , the words echoed in Clark’s head, and he pushed away the thought of how _much_ he needed him and how greedy and dishonest he was.)

‘Clear your Saturday. We’ll look at places in the afternoon, and in the evening we’ll do dinner and opera. There’s a production of _Carmen_ on tour.’

‘Oh. That sounds fine. And you’re fine with taking a night off?’ Clark dug his hands in his pockets.

‘I thought you were saying I should be less reckless?’ Bruce raised an eyebrow and walked around his desk, coming to a stop in front of Clark. ‘We haven’t been out together in weeks. People will talk.’

Someone knocked on the door.

‘I guess I should head out.’ They were close enough to touch. Bruce had tilted his head to one side, studying Clark like an owl would study a field mouse.

‘In a moment. Come in!’ Bruce yelled in the direction of the door, before he leaned in and kissed Clark.

Clark heard the door open. He felt Bruce’s hands clasp against his skin, one hand in the back of his neck and the other cradling his cheek. He felt Bruce’s kisses, familiar and fervent and a fire in his stomach. He felt hesitant, like he always did, when it came to returning the kiss, kissing back with enough fervour to be believable, but little enough to not be transparent.

‘Gotta go, baby.’ Bruce murmured as he pulled away (and Clark wondered if _baby_ was what he called his conquests, if he was slotting Clark into a space next to them). ‘I’ll come by Saturday. Early afternoon. Keep your schedule free for me.’

He claimed another kiss before stepping back and turning to the man who was hovering by the doorframe, awkwardly not looking at the men.

‘John, come in. Have you met my boyfriend, Clark? Clark, John. John, Clark.’ Bruce moved easily between them, shaking John’s hand and walking him into the room. ‘We just had some business to get through, you-know-what-I-mean. All yours now, Johnny. What was this about Christmas bonuses?’

John – pudgy and balding and every inch the type of man you’d expect to be on the board of a multinational conglomerate – looked doubtfully at Bruce, who had swung himself back into his desk chair, his feet on the table. John glanced over at Clark.

Clark realised he had yet to move.

‘Oh, I, uh, I’m heading out. I’ll see you later, Bruce. Um, John, nice to meet you.’ Clark offered his hand and John accepted it, though his face still looked doubtful. Clark made his excuses and left.

* * *

They were sitting in the dive bar two blocks from the _Daily Planet_ offices. Lois had already kicked off her shoes, her hair in a messy bun. Jimmy was pouring them each a mug of beer from the iced pitcher in the middle of the table. Clark was trying to extract a singular tortilla chips from the mountain of nachos in front of them, a perfect chip loaded with cheese and salsa.

‘What a fucking week.’ Lois said and drank deep from her beer stein. Jimmy helpfully refilled it at once. ‘If _anything_ happens in the world this weekend, no one tell me, please.’

It was Friday afternoon. Lois had in the last week tried to hold a corrupt official accountable for a dangerous oil spill, write an expose on a men’s club chain that was fudging their health and safety reports, and provided an expert statement to the Senate on the implications of alien attacks in a world with Superman. She had arrived back to Metropolis earlier that afternoon and immediately dragged Jimmy and Clark to the nearest bar.

‘Seriously.’ She looked at Clark and raised her eyebrows. ‘Nothing’s allowed to happen in the world.’

‘Yeah, I’m kinda looking forward to a quiet weekend, too,’ Jimmy agreed, scooping up three chips and a mountain of cheese. ‘I’ve got some video games I wanna get through, and I’ve got some food I actually gotta cook.’

‘ _Cooking_.’ Lois echoed and reached for the nachos. ‘I don’t know how anyone does it. Not only do you have to spend all day working and dealing with people’s bullshit, but then you have to go home and _cook_ ? And when you’ve cooked you have to _clean_ everything?’

‘I find cooking quite relaxing.’ Clark murmured behind his beer.

‘Ugh, I _know_.’ Lois whined melodramatically. ‘And yet you never did the dishes.’

Clark shrugged.

‘The dishes always ended up being done somehow.’

‘Jesus, Clark.’ Lois twirled the trailing cheese around a tortilla and shoved it in her mouth. She shook her head at him, but smiled fondly.

‘Do you cook for Bruce?’ Jimmy asked.

‘No, not really. But it’s not like he cooks for me.’

‘Yeah, having a butler saves you from having to do that,’ Lois scoffed.

‘Hey, don’t be mean. Alfred’s great.’

‘Sure he is. What does he think of you?’

Clark considered the question and sipped his beer.

‘He says Bruce is a very lucky guy.’

‘High praise indeed. I assume, from the flowers he’s been sending you, that things are going very well? Or is he sending flowers because it’s going _poorly_?’ She took another deep draught of beer.

‘It’s going well. Really well. It’s–‘ Clark hesitated, paused for a second to think of an adequate adjective, ‘nice. He’s nice.’

‘Oh, if Cat was here! Headline of the decade, right there. _Beau of billionaire playboy on record: he’s nice!_ ’

‘Shut up.’

 _Shut up_ was Clark’s automatic response whenever Jimmy said anything about Bruce. It usually worked well.

‘I’d like to meet him.’ Lois reached across the table for the pitcher. ‘Properly, I mean. I’ve met him at galas and stupid stuff like that, but I’d like to meet him in the role of _boyfriend_.’

Lois was good at pretending, maybe better than Clark. She made no reference to meeting Bruce at Clark’s funeral.

‘And if he doesn’t pass the rigorous Lois Lane boyfriend test?’

‘Well, then you obviously have to break up.’ She stuck her tongue out at him.

‘That’s a tough deal.’

‘Can’t you have like a party or something? I know you don’t really have any other friends, but, like, a dinner party?’ Jimmy attacked the nachos from a new angle, stacking the chips into cheese-smothered triangle sandwiches.

Clark considered the question as he studied the nachos, finding the perfect chip.

‘I mean, your birthday’s coming up.’ Lois said, eyebrows raised. ‘Is Martha coming to town? Maybe you could do a birthday party.’

‘I’m in my _thirties_. I think I am a little too old to be having a birthday party.’

Jimmy emptied the last of the pitcher and got up.

‘I don’t know about that. No one’s too old for a birthday party. Refill?’

‘Can we have something less… I dunno, stinky?’ Lois sniffed her beer and made a face. ‘I don’t know if it’s just too warm, but this beer just got worse and worse with every sip.’

‘Gotcha. Pitcher of Bud coming up.’

Lois trained her eyes on Clark when Jimmy was out of earshot.

‘You like him, don’t you? And I mean _like_ -like, so don’t come at me with one of your “oh of course I like him” spiels.’

Clark finished his beer, using it as an excuse to not look at Lois for just a moment.

‘It’s not… it’s not like that. It’s–’ he traced his finger down the condensation of his stein, feeling the cold glass against the pad of his fingertip. ‘I’ve just got my wires crossed. We know each other so well, and now there’s, well,’ (and Clark could feel the burn of his blush,) ‘kissing involved and he’s so ludicrously charming when he’s in that role because that’s what that role is _for_ , and I’m just… distracted by him.’

‘Mhm?’ Lois perched her chin on her closed fist and smirked at him. ‘You gonna tell him?’

‘No. He’d get mad.’

‘He’d get _mad_? Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t he the one who suggested this entire thing, and from what I can tell, he’s the one who keeps kissing you. Surely you catching–‘ she waved a hand, ‘feelings must be part of one of his fifteen dozen contingency plans. I’ve only met him a couple of times, but him getting mad about _that_ seems pretty unlikely. I mean, have you _seen_ you?’

Clark glanced toward the bar before he replied. Jimmy was trying, and failing, to flirt with the bartender.

‘It’s… wrong. Not that, not – but that we agreed that it was a good plan and here I am, enjoying it more than I should. It’s not right. I shouldn’t be like that. It’s not fair on Bruce.’

‘Have you considered that maybe _he_ likes it, too?’ She reached to brush her fingers over Clark’s palm. ‘It’s not like he _has_ to kiss you in public. Like, most men who are in their first open same-sex relationship at – what is he, almost fifty? – aren’t usually _that_ big on PDA. For famous people, holding hands in public is plenty.’

Clark exhaled. He could not, he _would_ not consider it.

‘ _Lois._ ’ He protested, noiselessly.

‘Just think about it. And talk to him.’

‘You don’t know him like I do. That’s just how Bruce is. All or nothing.’

‘All or nothing, huh?’ Jimmy reappeared with another pitcher of beer and a bowl of peanuts. ‘We talking about our favourite billionaire?’

‘Yeah, I was just saying he’ll bring some ridiculous dessert for dinner.’ Clark lied. Lying was easier now, had become easier ever since Bruce touched his hair with reverential fingers. ‘Are you free for a birthday dinner next Saturday?’

‘I’ll clear my calendar,’ Jimmy promised and poured them each a fresh round of beer.

* * *

The next day, Clark realised that Bruce was coming over. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been aware of it, but he hadn’t quite understood that Bruce would _actually_ be in his apartment. He hadn’t considered that he hadn’t tidied since before the alien invasion several weeks ago.

Using his speed always felt like cheating. There was something calming, something peaceful, about taking the time and scrubbing each plate before placing it in the dishwasher, almost tripping over the vacuum cord when trying to reach under the back of the sofa, throwing the desiccated vegetables he had kept hoping he’d use up into the compost, and sorting the recycling after letting it pile up under the sink for months. He worked methodically through his apartment, starting with the hall, moving to the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, and, as a final afterthought, his bedroom. There was no reason to clean his bedroom, he thought, but if he was cleaning the rest of the apartment, he might as well get it all clean.

He threw out an unopened container of sour cream that had a best before date from three months ago. He found no less than seven individual socks in and around the sofa. He emptied the vacuum bag and three quarters of the dirt fell out. He considered mopping his floors, but decided that if he hadn’t done that since he moved into the apartment, there was no reason to start now. He showered, long and hot, and felt clean again.

When Bruce rang his doorbell, Clark squeezed the water from his hair and threw on a shirt.

‘Flannel?’ Bruce asked and stepped past Clark. ‘You’re not wearing that.’

‘Why not? I like flannel.’

The furrow between his eyebrows deepened as the corner of his mouth twitched.

‘We are going to look at apartments, not farm houses. Wear the suit. The green one.’ Bruce slumped into Clark’s only armchair and pulled out his phone. When Clark had stayed rooted to the spot for several seconds, he glanced up. ‘Any time today would be great.’

‘Right.’

Again, Clark wondered if he should put his foot down. He wondered if the flannel really was as egregious as Bruce said. He wondered if letting Bruce call the shots was the right thing. He wasn’t walking over him; he was giving him just enough wiggle room to push back if he wanted to. The fact that Clark _didn’t_ want to was really the problem. (The fact that Clark was _in love with him_ didn’t really help either.)

He paused at the door to his bedroom, uncertain if he should close the door open or if it’d be more appropriate to close it. He compromised by leaving it half-ajar, a couple of feet of visibility into the living room. He could see the shimmer of Bruce’s grey temples before he turned.

‘We’re seeing two apartments today.’ Bruce called from where he was sitting, his voice carrying through the small apartment. ‘First we’re having coffee with the realtor. Wants to get to know who we are, yadda yadda. You won’t need a tie unless you want it.’

Clark, for once, folded his jeans and hung his shirt back on the hanger he got it from. He glanced over at the pile of shirts he had worn once since the last load of laundry, but that he had decided would be good enough for a second day. He should really hang those, too. Slotting that thought in the back of his mind, he pulled out the emerald suit and one of the silky dress shirts Bruce had given him.

When he came back to the living room, Bruce stood and looked him up and down.

‘Lose the waistcoat. With your build a waistcoat is a commitment to doing business. You want to look relaxed. Easy.’

Bruce’s eyes stayed on him as he peeled out of the jacket and undid the buttons to his waistcoat, draping it over the arm of the chair. When he reached out his hand to take his jacket back, Bruce’s hand caught Clark’s wrist.

He shifted Clark’s hand, fraction by fraction. He cocked his head. He let his thumb brush over the cufflink neatly fastened in the cuff.

‘That’s not mine.’ There was something about his voice, something at once hesitant and almost possessive. Clark could feel the voice in the pit of his stomach.

‘Oh, it’s dad’s.’ He snatched his hand back and pressed his fingers against the cufflink. His skin felt cold from where he had been touched. It was like burning. ‘Ma gave it to me when we went for dinner. Said I might need something to dress up.’

‘It’s a tractor.’ Bruce held out his jacket. He was almost smiling.

‘Dad liked tractors. Ma said she gave it to him for his fortieth birthday and he never got a chance to wear them. And I–’ Clark licked his lips and said nothing.

‘You wanted to make sure they got used.’

He had never sounded this soft before. Clark listened to his slow beat and tried to quiet his own rushing heart. Bruce held out the jacket again, now holding it by the lapels. Clark barely hesitated before he turned and found the sleeves of the jacket, feeling Bruce’s fingers almost run over his arms as he pulled the jacket on him. When he turned, he stayed still to let Bruce assess his appearance once more. With unearned confidence, Bruce reached across the distance between them and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. His fingertips were soft against his throat.

‘Perfect.’ Bruce said and stepped back.

They were halfway to the ground floor, watching the slow elevator _ding_ for each floor it passed, when Clark remembered.

‘Are you doing anything next Saturday?’

Bruce glanced over at him.

‘Why?’

Clark pressed his thumb against the stainless steel tractor, feeling every groove and ridge.

‘It’s my birthday next week. There has been, um, requests for a birthday dinner party. Ma’s coming into town. Lois and Jimmy’ll be there. I hoped, that maybe –‘

‘Okay.’

The quick agreement surprised him.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ 

They were silent for the rest of the elevator ride.

‘What about Dick?’ Bruce asked when the doors opened. ‘Are you inviting him?’

That was twice Bruce had suggested inviting Dick. Clark wondered why. Was it to help repair their relationship? Maybe Bruce thought of Clark as some kind of buffer that would make Dick feel safe to be around Bruce, like they didn’t still have to walk on eggshells around each other. Maybe it was the opposite. Maybe Bruce felt that Dick’s presence made it easier to be around Clark. Or maybe Clark was overthinking this. Maybe Bruce just liked to spend time with them both.

‘I hadn’t thought about it.’ Clark said, honestly. ‘Do you want me to?’

Bruce shrugged.

‘It’s your birthday.’

His voice was almost _too_ non-commital. He held the car door open for Clark and filed in next to him.

‘I’ll see if he’s free.’

From the corner of his eye, Clark could see the quiet smile on Bruce’s face.

Alfred dropped them off at a coffee shop three blocks from the _Daily Planet_ offices. Clark went there, sometimes, on days when the _Planet_ coffee wasn’t cutting it. As soon as they stepped through the door, Bruce set off. Clark followed, half-a-step behind him.

‘Ashley Combs?’ Bruce addressed a middle-aged woman, her dyed blonde hair voluminous and her nail polish a pale pink. He offered a hand. ‘Bruce Wayne.’

Ashley got up and accepted the hand, smiling widely. She turned to Clark with the same bright smile, and he was reminded of the fluff pieces he would have to write now and then on suburban mothers who were running for city council.

‘And you must be Clark Kent. It’s so nice meeting both of you. Coffee? My treat.’

‘We’d be delighted.’ Bruce smiled, his hand now resting comfortably in the small of Clark’s back.

The trio meandered to the bar, where the realtor ordered a dirty chai latte ( _iced, please!_ ).

‘Could I have…’ Bruce cocked his head as he looked at the board behind the barista’s head, his fingers running up and down Clark’s back. His body exuded confidence and his skin now felt warm against the fabric of the suit. ‘Decaf no-fat latte, two pumps vanilla, one pump caramel. No foam. And whipped cream on top.’

The barista raised his eyebrows at Bruce as he jotted down the order, but said nothing.

‘I’ll have a cappuccino, please.’ Clark ordered, as though his simple request was an apology for Bruce’s stupid order. ‘A large, please.’

They returned to the sofa where Ashley had left her bag. Bruce draped his arm around Clark’s shoulder and smiled easily at her.

‘Was my assistant able to get you everything you needed?’ He smiled.

‘Yes, and your phone call helped, too.’

Bruce laughed as though he were embarrassed that she acknowledged the phone call.

‘Be quiet about that call, or that one will start to think I really care.’ He winked at Ashley as he tossed his head in the direction of Clark. His fingers brushed over Clark’s shoulder. ‘Tell us about the properties.’

The barista called _Ashley!_ and Clark took upon himself to bring their drinks back, balancing Bruce’s drink on top of his own cappuccino and under his chin, the chai in his free hand. It was an awkward way to carry it, and very Clark Kent. Bruce took his own coffee and passed the tea latte to the realtor.

‘So, we’ll be looking at two condos today. They are both within a few blocks from here. They fit your specifications to a T, so I’m really excited.’ She paused for a sip of her drink, and Clark waited for her to continue. He wasn’t quite sure _what_ specifications Bruce had given her. ‘The first one we’re going to look at is a beautiful four-bedroom, across two stories. Older building, back from the 40s, but great remodel. It’s not quite the top floor, which I know you were interested in, but it has a big balcony looking over the city. The second one is a little smaller, three bedrooms, but a similar square footage. That one’s only a couple of years old. It’s in one of the skyscrapers built after, y’know.

She made a gesture that Clark assumed indicated Superman’s heat vision. He shifted in his seat.

‘Like the other one, it’s got a balcony and this one _is_ on the top floor. There’s already been a lot of interest for both of these, so you’ll have to move quickly.’

‘Don’t we always.’ Bruce muttered as he dragged a thumbnail down Clark’s neck. ‘And price?’

Clark listened in barely concealed horror when Ashley told them the numbers, and Bruce’s soft _hmm_ and comments of _sounds incredibly reasonable_ only made it worse. He sipped his coffee and tried to calculate how many years’ total income he would have to spend to even manage a ten percent down payment. Again, the absurdity of the situation bore down upon him. But, then again. Compared to buying a bank, buying a condo that costs seven figures was pocket change.

‘Well, I think I’m ready when Clark is. How you feeling, baby?’ Bruce smiled at him, lazy and open and nothing like the Bat.

Clark was still not used to the endearment.

‘Let me finish my coffee first. Knowing me, I’ll spill it all over the first apartment and I’d like to avoid that embarrassment if possible.’

Bruce clucked with laughter.

‘Well, while we’re waiting, why don’t you tell me a little about yourselves? How long have you been together? This is your first place together?’

‘Hmm, yes.’ Bruce stretched his arms languid, luxurious, holding attention while saying nothing at all. Clark kept to his coffee. ‘Few months. Known each other for years. I refuse to stay at his place – if you’d seen it you’d understand, I’m sure, Ashley – and kid here thinks that hotel stays are, what was it you said?’

‘Uh. Excessively indulgent?’ They had never actually had this conversation, but if they _had_ had it, Clark would have pronounced hotel stays over-the-top. (For a moment he thought about the implications of the statement, of the concept of him and Bruce sleeping together, _really_ sleeping together. He thought about Bruce’s scarred chest under the finest Egyptian cotton, his breathing easy in rest. He thought about waking up next to him, hair sticking up and eyes half-lidded with sleep. He made a very firm decision to _stop_ thinking about this.)

Bruce laughed at Clark’s comment. He was in one of his bright moods today, teasing and full of smiles. Clark still couldn’t tell if this was truly affected, or if Bruce was actually in a good mood.

‘That’s me in a nutshell. So the condo’s a compromise. I get somewhere acceptable to sleep when I’m over, and Clark gets out of that hovel.’

If Ashley found anything strange in a recent couple buying a luxury condo together, she said nothing. A commission cheque is a commission cheque.

When Clark finished his coffee, they left. Bruce walked with Ashley, discussing the Metropolis real estate market, how Gotham compared, the differences between buying a residential property and a commercial property. Clark walked half a step behind them, though Bruce would glance back at him now and then and jerk his head. The Metropolis pavements were wide, but not quite wide enough for three people walking next to each other as well as allow for foot traffic in the opposite direction.

In the elevator, Bruce reached out his hand and wrapped their fingers together. Ashley had turned her focus on the property, and was telling them about the elevator. It was a very luxurious one, she told them, and Clark had never considered that even elevators could be luxurious. It was all mirrors, and he could see him and Bruce reflected in infinity.

‘Does this building have roof access?’ Bruce asked.

‘I’m, uh, not sure.’ The realtor pulled out a folder and started leafing through it. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged, ‘Rooftop parties. Somewhere to land the helicopter.’

_Somewhere for Superman._

‘It looks like a no on that.’ Ashley frowned at the document. ‘But like I said, it’s got a very nice balcony. Won’t really fit a helicopter, but I’m sure you could do a lovely party out there when the weather’s nice.’

The apartment was fine. Clark couldn’t stop glancing up at the high ceilings and admiring the heavy mahogany crown moulding, but Bruce seemed less enthused.

‘Isn’t four bedrooms a little much?’ Clark asked when they had looked at the first bedroom. _Here’s your master_ , Ashley had said and Bruce had huffed at the heat in Clark’s cheeks.

‘Not at all,’ Bruce replied easily, stepping out of the room and pointing to each in turn. ‘Our bedroom. Your office. My office. Guest room for when your mother comes.’ He frowned. ‘Or Alfred. Maybe we need five.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. If I work from home I don’t need an office, and it’s not like you ever work when you’re in Metropolis.’

‘Why work when I have so many better things to do?’ Bruce winked at him, a smug grin plastered on his face.

Everything Clark Kent knew about property purchases, he learned from _House Hunters_. As such, when they reached the kitchen, which had been remodelled to open up upon the dining room, he leaned over to Bruce:

‘It’s _great_ for entertaining!’

Bruce laughed.

‘It really is.’ Ashley walked through the kitchen, explaining features and reiterating what a great space it is. ‘It’s a really great space.’

‘I don’t love it.’ Bruce said when they had walked through the entire apartment. They were on the balcony which, as Ashley had promised, was big enough to host a party. ‘It feels… shut in.’

The afternoon light caught the silver in his hair, and Clark wanted to touch him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out on Metropolis, sprawling beneath them. Just a couple of blocks away, he could see the copper planet perched atop the _Daily Planet_ building.

‘And Clark’s right. We don’t need four bedrooms. It’s excessive.’

‘Well, maybe you’ll like the other one more. It’s that one.’ Ashley pointed at a neighbouring skyscraper. ‘That balcony there, that’s the one. Shall we?’

Soon enough, they were outside the other apartment building. Bruce whistled when the door opened.

‘This is beautiful,’ he said approvingly.

Of course Bruce would think it was beautiful. It was all modern lines and harsh chrome against black and white. It reminded Clark of the lake house. It, somehow, felt like home.

‘So, this one has three bedrooms, not four. The master is in that corner, there, so let’s go through the rest of the condo first.’

She walked them through the first two bedrooms, peeking into the large bathroom off the living room, and lingering in the kitchen while Bruce peppered her with questions. _Yes, this one_ does _have rooftop access. The balcony being accessible through the kitchen is a fun touch, isn’t it? For being so modern, it’s really nice and cosy._ Bruce smiled at her comments and glanced over at Clark every few minutes, gauging his reaction. Once they had seen all the other rooms, Bruce turned on his heel and opened the door to the master bedroom.

‘Oh.’

Clark followed Bruce into the bedroom, and understood why Bruce for once was at a loss for words. The eastern wall of the room was a stretch of windows looking out on the Metropolis bay, the heavy spires of Gotham almost visible in the afternoon haze. The sun was out of view, but the light was bright enough that Bruce’s solid frame was shrouded in darkness in comparison.

‘What do you think?’ Ashley asked, following them into the room. ‘With the window facing the east, you get some really amazing morning light.’

Bruce still said nothing, his eyes roaming the view. Clark took another few steps closer, coming to a stop next to him. He allowed himself just a moment of studying Bruce (his sharp features, the slight roughness of stubble along his jaw, the fierceness that burned in his eye when no one was watching), before he looked out on the bay.

‘Baby, I want you drenched in sunlight.’

Clark turned back to Bruce, who was watching him with focused eyes. One hand was resting, palm flat, against the heavy windows, as though he wanted to push as hard as he could to see if that would break it. His other hand brushed over Clark’s shirt collar, his shoulder, down his arm. He caught his hand and laced their fingers together. His gaze dipped down to Clark’s lips before returning to his eyes again.

‘Would you?’ He asked instead.

He wondered if this was something the realtor saw often. It felt too private, too intimate. How could Bruce not know what he was doing to him? Bruce, who was always in control of his body, who kept his pulse slow and steady, even as his touch felt like fire to each of Clark’s senses. Clark breathed, and he could hear how heavy and ragged it sounded. (For a moment, he allowed himself to entertain the insane notion that Lois was right, that Bruce actually cared.)

‘It’s a nice apartment.’ Clark finally managed, his voice steadier than he felt. ‘I like it.’

‘Do you want it?’

It was too much. It was far, far, _far_ too much. Clark didn’t need anything this nice, this luxurious, this bespoke. But. _But_. For the narrative, for the story they were trying to weave, it made sense. Bruce Wayne was the sort of man who bought ridiculous gifts like the price didn’t matter. (For Bruce Wayne, the price _didn’t_ matter.) A billionaire playboy with no sense would make a decision like that. Strategically, too, it was a good choice. However crass the comment was, Bruce was right about the sun. It was more likely than not that Clark would one day get hurt enough that he couldn’t fly through the stratosphere and bathe in the direct light of the sun. In his weakened state, there would be nothing better than a night of sleep and waking up to the yellow rays.

Clark wondered if this was somehow yet another apology, that Bruce was intentionally or unintentionally offering this with an attitude of: _I’m sorry for trying to kill me. Let me help keep you alive_. 

‘Yes,’ he finally said.

Bruce smiled and kissed him. The kiss was short, chaste, and _soft_. Bruce’s free hand cupped his cheek and stroked over his cheekbone. He pulled back and grinned again, all gleaming symmetrical teeth and crows’ feet around his eyes. He turned to Ashley, his hands still touching Clark.

‘Let’s make an offer.’


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark hosts a birthday dinner. Bruce and Clark visit Central City to see Barry and go to a very special party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes for this chapter:  
> \- I’m assuming Clark’s birthday is in May (May 3rd is a commonly cited one, though that doesn’t quite work with my timeline, so let’s leave it vague to May-sometime)  
> \- I don’t know if it’s possible to do a 95% downpayment of a mortgage. If it’s not, let’s pretend it _is_ possible  
> \- In this fic, I’m claiming that Bruce is the CEO of both Wayne Industries and WayneTech. Let’s make the assumption that WayneTech is just the tech branch and, with that, has usurped a lot of tech start-up culture, including ridiculous numbers of shirts employees get.  
> \- I spent approximately three minutes on Glassdoor to see what a reasonable % employee approval for Bruce would be. A lot of CEOs known to be crummy get numbers in the eighties, so I decided that Bruce is just a great – and well-loved – CEO.

On Clark’s birthday, his small apartment – still his for another few weeks, before the closing and the move – was filled with almost everyone he loved. Bruce and Dick were the last to arrive. Jimmy had poured mid-price sparkling wine into disposable champagne flutes and was now carefully washing salad. Lois was whisking a vinaigrette. Clark’s mother was slicing strawberries with incredible care. Clark sat with his plastic glass of bubbly and watched all of them fondly. When the doorbell rang, everyone protested as Clark stood up to open the door.

‘You could’ve let yourself in, you know.’

‘That would’ve been rude.’ Bruce stepped inside the apartment and planted a kiss in the corner of Clark’s mouth. ‘Happy birthday, honey.’

‘We brought wine,’ Dick announced and placed the wine bag on the floor before giving Clark a hug. ‘Happy birthday. How old are you now?’

‘I’m thirty-six.’

‘Getting old, huh?’

‘That’s how time works.’ Clark turned. ‘Jimmy, Lois. This is Dick Grayson. Bruce’s ward.’

Dick grinned and waved. Lois, who had finally finished whisking the vinaigrette, reached out a hand. When he had shook the hand he shoved his hands back into his pockets.

‘Hey. Nice to meet you both.’

‘Lois, nice to meet you again.’ Bruce shook her hand, his free hand folded over the back of hers.

‘Nice to meet you _properly_ , at last!’ 

With everyone assembled, the glasses of sparkling wine were passed around and everyone sang for Clark. Clark hid behind his flannel and couldn’t stop smiling. Soon enough, the six of them sat nestled around Clark’s small table, Bruce on his left and his mother on his right. The dinner was chaotic and loud, and just about perfect. Clark was delighted to see Dick get on so well with both Lois and Jimmy. A happy stillness filled his heart when he saw Lois smile a real, genuine smile at Bruce, who was talking to her not as playboy Bruce Wayne, but as his real self.

They talked about nothing at all, and Clark’s heart was full.

‘So what did you get Clark for his birthday, papa?’ Dick asked behind his wine-filled mason jar.

(Bruce had looked at Clark’s lack of glassware, and poured his Châteauneuf Du Pape into the proffered jar with a great sigh.)

‘Papa? Is that what we’re saying now?’

‘Just trying it out. Don’t dodge the question.’

‘Yeah, did he get you anything nice, Clark?’ Jimmy asked, propping his chin on his knuckles and staring intensely.

‘Uh – I mean –‘ Clark started as Bruce –

‘I didn’t really think of –‘ He fumbled, and Clark wondered if the red in his cheeks was wine, the lighting, or nerves, ‘it’s been a busy quarter and I–‘

‘Spoiler alert!’ Conspiratorially, Dick tipped his head towards Jimmy before he continued. ‘He _did_ give him a nice gift. He bought him a condo just down the street.’

‘ _What_!’

Lois hid behind her hair after the outburst, the red locks barely hiding her baffled grin.

‘It’s – that wasn’t a gift. We got a mortgage.’ Clark defended himself.

‘With a 95% downpayment, sugar.’ Bruce corrected. ‘It wasn’t a birthday gift, though. I just don’t–‘ he lifted his hand and waved it vaguely in the air, ‘I really hate this apartment. Just look at these glasses. They’re not even real glasses. At least get some Riedel.’

He lifted the mason jar to show his disdain, but he smiled knowingly when the table laughed at him.

‘Bruce, you know you can’t just _change_ people when you’re in a relationship with them?’ Martha smiled kindly at him.

‘Look, I’m drinking a cheap vintage from a damn canning jar. You can’t say Clark hasn’t changed me.’

He said it flippantly, lightly, a teasing smile on his lips, but Clark could see the steel in his eyes. He let his fingers trace over his shoulders, tracing from one side to the other. He could feel Bruce relax, moment by moment, his tense shoulders dropping slightly.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Ma smiled and raised her glass.

‘So where’s this condo?’ Lois asked, reaching across the table to pinch the last piece of garlic bread.

‘Longshore and 5th,’ Bruce replied easily.

Lois and Jimmy both stared at Bruce for a moment, mouths hanging open.

‘Jesus.’ the Pulitzer winner finally managed.

‘It’s a nice apartment,’ Bruce shrugged as though he hadn’t spent a few million dollars on a recent (fake) boyfriend. ‘I’m sure Clark will have a housewarming party once he’s moved in.’

‘Or you can help me move,’ Clark grinned. ‘Bruce doesn’t really go in for physical labour.’

‘Pshh.’ Bruce shrugged. ‘I don’t help with physical labour, but I’ll help with the dishes.’

‘You don’t know how to load a dishwasher.’

‘That’s stupid, of course I do. How hard can it be?’

Bruce stacked the dirty plates and carried them to the kitchen. Clark followed and leaned against the kitchen counter on the other side of the dishwasher.

‘You need to rinse them before you put them in the dishwasher.’

Bruce frowned.

‘Why? We put them in the dishwasher to clean them. That just seems wasteful.’

‘Well, my dishwasher’s not good enough to get the grimy stuff off. So you have to rinse, y’know, stuff off first.’

‘Good thing you’re getting a new dishwasher, right?’

Bruce grinned excessively, all teeth and squinted eyes. He continued loading the dishwasher, now giving each plate a cursory rinse before placing it. Clark returned to the living room and collected more dishes, waving off everyone’s protests that he, as the birthday boy, shouldn’t have to do _anything_. He returned to Bruce, and watched him from the corner of his eye. There was something so lovely and domestic about this, something that tore at Clark’s heart even as it filled him with a sense of peace. He’d take a million days of this.

‘How’s that, then?’

Clark looked down at the lower rack of the dishwasher, pulled out between them.

‘You should do every other big, every other small. Helps with the water.’

‘I swear you’re making this up.’

But Bruce smiled, barely a crook of his lip now, and he reached out across the dishwasher, hooking a finger around one of Clark’s shirt buttons, pulling him closer. Bruce was kissing him in his tiny kitchen, both of them angled awkwardly on either side of the open dishwasher. Clark allowed himself to touch Bruce’s face, stroke a thumb over his jaw before letting it rest in the crook of his neck and shoulder. Bruce kissed unhurriedly, carefully, tenderly. (Like a boyfriend might on a birthday.) There was no reason for him to kiss him like this. Everyone except Jimmy knew the truth. Yet Clark didn’t move away. Neither did Bruce.

‘Hey!’ They pulled apart at the sound of Dick’s voice. He was balancing his chair on the back legs, head cocked in direction of the kitchen. ‘Are we ever having cake?’ 

‘Um. Ma’s in charge of that.’

‘Get out of the kitchen, kids, I’ll take over from here. Dick, if you’re so keen, I’ll have you on whipping cream duty again. I believe Clark even owns an electric whisk.’

‘I take great affront at being called _kid_ , Mrs Kent.’ Bruce smiled at her, his hand against the small of Clark’s back as he led him back to the table.

For the rest of the evening, Lois would raise her eyebrows every time her eyes met Clark’s. _Well?_ She said in all but words, and Clark shook his head slightly every time. Just after nine, Bruce swung an arm around Clark and looked over at him.

‘Babe, I gotta go. Tokyo meeting in a couple of hours, and I need to look at some stuff in the office first.’

Clark knew there wasn’t a meeting. He knew that Bruce had no intention of going to the office. He knew that soon enough, the Bat would hide on the rooftops of Gotham and do the work the Gotham police refused to. Clark could almost smell the rain on Kevlar plating.

‘It’s _Saturday_.’

‘Sunday in Japan, baby. Business waits for no one.’ Bruce got up and ruffled Clark’s hair before he started putting his shoes back on. Clark pushed his untamed curl back into his hair.

‘I’ll walk you down.’

‘Lovely.’ Shoes on, he worked his way around the table. ‘Jimmy, good to see you. Lois, same. Lovely as always. Martha, the dinner: truly outdone yourself. Dick, are you good for getting home yourself?’

‘I’m an _adult_. I can take the ferry and the metro like everyone else. Ferry goes til midnight, and metro to Blüd doesn’t stop going til 2am on a Saturday. I’ll stay a little longer.’

Dick was leaning his chair on the back legs again, leaning his head back to talk to his father. Bruce used his full strength and pulled the chair up, making it stand on all four again.

‘Like you said, you’re a grown-up. So don’t do that. It’s rude.’

‘Sure, _dad_.’

‘Bruce, you’re not leaving without a hug.’ Martha stepped into his space and wrapped her arms around him. He hesitated for a split-second before he returned the embrace. ‘Thank you for coming. I know how busy you are.’

‘Anything for Clark,’ Bruce said with a smile, but there was tension in the smile. If Martha saw it, she said nothing. ‘Again, thank you for the food.’

‘Right, I’ll be back in a few minutes.’ Clark had slipped his shoes on and was hovering by the door.

‘Don’t stay out too long.’ Lois winked at him.

‘Come on, Kansas.’

Bruce left the apartment with another quick wave and his hand on Clark’s back. The hand dropped when the elevator door closed. Bruce crossed his arms and watched the floor numbers drop. Clark glanced over at him a few times, but kept his eyes trained in front of him most of the time. It wouldn’t do to stare.

The elevator gave a final _ding_ when they reached the garage. The lights in the garage were low, a burnt orange glow that made everything gleam. The white cars looked golden; the black cars burnished. Clark followed Bruce to where he’d parked his car. They had still not said anything at all. If Bruce was waiting for him to speak, he wasn’t saying anything about it. When they reached the car (an Aston Martin – incredibly nice, but not as flashy as many of his cars), Bruce leaned against the boot and watched Clark.

‘Good birthday?’ He asked as Clark was frantically trying to think of something to say.

‘Yeah, yeah. It was really good.’

Clark shoved his hands in his back pockets and studied the gravel under his feet before looking up at Bruce again. In the hazy light, he was reduced to sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. A fluorescent bulb glowed behind him, a golden halo surrounding his head. If there was ever a time for being honest, it was now.

‘Hey, Bruce.’

‘Yes?’ Bruce cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. It was a familiar gesture, and although his lips were firm, there was fondness in his eyes. Clark’s tongue felt slack in his mouth and there was nothing he could say. He couldn’t tell Bruce. He couldn’t risk this.

‘Thanks for coming tonight. I appreciate it.’

‘I hear coming to birthdays is Relationship 101.’ There was a twist in Bruce’s cheek, an aborted smile.

‘I don’t even know when your birthday is.’ Clark admitted.

‘February 19th. I’ll probably have to throw some gouche party for my 50th next year. Half a century of Bruce bloody Wayne.’

‘Lucky us.’

Bruce huffed.

‘I guess. You won’t have to come, of course.’

‘I’d be happy to. I mean. We’re likely to be married at that point, aren’t we?’

Clark tried not to stare as Bruce dragged his lower lip through his teeth.

‘Yeah, I’d think so.’

‘I’d be failing the good husband test if I ditched a party like that, I think.’

‘Probably. And Dick would likely chew you out, too.’ Bruce paused. ‘I should get going.’

‘You’ve got that _meeting_ to get to.’

‘Exactly. No rest for the wicked.’ Bruce had moved over to the driver’s side and opened the door.

‘You’re not wicked, Bruce.’

His eyes, when he looked at Clark, were darker than the deepest abyss.

‘It’s a saying, Clark.’

‘I know. But. Be safe tonight.’

‘You know me,’ Bruce winked and got in the car, closing the door behind him.

Clark did know Bruce, which meant that he was unlikely to be half as careful as Clark would want him to be. He would also somehow, magically, end up on his feet. Sometimes, he was more like a cat than a bat. Clark worried about what would happen when his luck ran out.

He watched Bruce drive away before he walked back to the elevator and re-joined the party. The rest of the night Lois doled out the wine Bruce brought to whomever asked for it. Everyone laughed a lot. Clark almost felt drunk by association, his smiles coming easier and the jokes seeming funnier than they really should be. It was a perfect evening. Still, Clark wished that Bruce had stayed.

* * *

‘Your regular order?’ The barista asked when Bruce and Clark stepped into the coffee shop. Clark had ducked out of work early for their first date in more than a week, and Bruce had shuffled his final meetings to the next day. It was almost 5pm on a Thursday, and while the coffee shop was quiet, the Gotham streets were milling with people hurrying to get home.

‘For here, please.’ Bruce filed through his money clip before handing a couple of bills over. ‘It’s Harper Row, right?’

‘I can’t remember telling you my name, Mr _Wayne_ ,’ Harper drawled with a grin full of teeth. ‘And it’s not like we have name tags.’

‘I have my ways.’ Bruce replied smoothly. If Clark were a betting man, he would have guessed a combination of using his backdoor to Gotham City’s CCTV and cross-referencing it with the DMV database. He leaned on the counter, looking at her over the chrome espresso machine. ‘Do you want a job?’

Harper dropped the milk pitcher. It shot to the floor, splattering her black apron with milk.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ she muttered before looking up at Bruce, ‘and what the _fuck_.’

‘I’m just asking if you want a job at Wayne Enterprises. Making conversation, really.’

Harper had dropped a wet towel on the floor and dragged it across the spilled milk. She pushed her hair out of her face and frowned at Bruce as she poured milk into a clean pitcher.

‘Why on earth would you offer _me_ a job?’

Bruce chuckled, a little too knowing for the vapid Bruce Wayne persona, but Clark assumed that Harper wouldn’t know that.

‘Why wouldn’t I? You make a good latte and I’m not one to ignore talent when I see it.’

‘So you want to hire me as, what, your barista?’ She scoffed. ‘I make you coffee now, and currently I can make fun of you as much as I want because you’re not my boss. I don’t see what I’d gain from making that lateral jump.’

‘You don’t _have_ to work as a barista. Anyway, the coffee bars at Wayne Enterprises are all managed by a catering company. I have no say there.’ Bruce leaned his chin against his open palm. ‘What are you good at?’

‘I didn’t finish high school.’

‘I didn’t ask about that. I didn’t finish my bachelor’s, but you don’t find me whining about it. I asked what you’re _good_ at.’

Clark wasn’t quite sure where Bruce was going with this. There was surely a reason why he would accost this barista with a job offer, but why he was willing to step so far away from the Bruce Wayne persona to do so was a mystery.

‘I dunno. Clark, that’s yours.’ She slid the first latte across the counter. She looked at Bruce and furrowed her forehead. ‘I like electrical work. Y’know. Soldering. Making things work.’

‘There’s always openings in janitorial,’ Bruce’s smile was vapid and pure sunlight, and it disappeared in an instance, ‘or maybe an internship at R&D would be more of something you’d want?’

Harper wobbled again as she lifted the second latte up to the counter.

‘Fucking R&D?’ She asked. ‘No way I’m qualified.’

‘Everyone knows that aptitude is far more important than qualifications.’ Bruce took a sip of his coffee and gave a steely smile. ‘We’d pay for you to go back to school, if you want. Finish your GED, college if you want. Get you certified and licensed. The perks are good.’

‘ _This_ job is good.’ Harper said with more venom than certainty.

‘I’m just saying.’ Bruce shrugged theatrically and wrapped a hand around his mug. ‘If you want a job, you know who to call.’

She hesitated for a moment before she accepted the embossed business card, tucking it into the pocket of her milk-covered apron.

‘This is fucking weird,’ Harper said.

‘Aliens are real and Atlantis exists. A giant _bat_ protects Gotham.’ Bruce’s voice was smoother than velvet as he spoke, but Clark noticed a new focus in Harper’s eyes when he mentioned Batman. ‘I’d temper my expectations of what counts as _weird_. Thanks for the coffee.’

‘Thank you, Harper.’ As though apologising for Bruce monopolising the last five minutes of her time, Clark pulled out a rattle of change and dumped it into the tip jar.

They found a table in the far corner of the cafe, nestled by the window and half-hidden by a set of bookcases. Bruce looked out the window, craning his head to see the _W_ splayed on the WayneTech building on the other side of the road.

‘What was that?’ Clark asked when he had waited long enough on Bruce to speak.

‘She’s looking for a mutual friend of ours.’

‘Batman?’ Clark whispered. Bruce nodded, his fingers pressed against his lips.

‘I haven’t figured out why. But whatever it is, I’d like to keep a close eye on her.’

‘Wait, is that why you’ve been getting coffee here?’

Bruce scoffed.

‘No, it’s a coincidence. They _do_ exist, Kansas.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘She wasn’t lying about electrical work. It’s impressive.’

‘She makes good coffee, too.’ Clark conceded.

‘Are you free the weekend of the twentieth?’ Bruce asked after minutes of silence.

Clark pulled out his planner – and was surprised that Bruce didn’t tease him for it – and found the week he’d mentioned.

‘Nothing as far as I can see.’

‘Do you want to come to Central City with me?’

‘To see Barry?’

Bruce shrugged.

‘There’s a gala happening there. I thought it’d be good to go. You did well last time. And it’d make sense to see Barry, so two birds, one stone.’

‘Oh, um, sure. I could do that.’

‘You’ll need another suit. Can’t wear the same one twice. I’ll set something up with Giuseppe. I’m thinking grey, double-breasted.’ Bruce looked him over. ‘A suit that looks like something you’d actually wear, but nicer.’

‘Ringing endorsement of my style, I’m sure.’ Clark winked over his coffee.

‘The girls’ll be swooning,’ Bruce said as he craned his head again, looking up at his company’s building, ‘and the boys, too.’

Clark laughed. He could do this. He could listen to Bruce tell him he was attractive (though not in so many words) with a half-crooked grin on his face without his heart beating too fast, without a tinge of red in his face. Bruce sipped his coffee and watched the people walking by. He had crossed his legs and was tapping a slow rhythm on his knee. Clark watched him and wondered if he knew he looked like a painting, all precision and passion.

‘I’ll get the presidential suite,’ he added after a few minutes, ‘it’s big enough to have a spare room. So you don’t have to worry about any awkwardness. Though I guess you could always take a nap in the Atlantic.’

Bruce looked over at him and winked.

‘I sleep with a fan on, but the Atlantic is a _little_ nippy.’

It was rare to see Bruce smile like this, unfeigned delight. Clark wondered what he had done to trick Bruce into changing his mind, into thinking that he was _decent_. (A sharp, mean voice reminded him that all he had to do was die.)

‘We’ll need to be seen somewhere before then. There’s a Metropolis Monarchs game next weekend. That, a dinner, maybe I’ll whisk you off for lunch. And drinks after your suit fitting.’

Clark was fascinated to hear Bruce lay it out with such clinical precision. Bruce talked the next few weeks through, detailing the upscale restaurant they’d go to, the day he’d “surprise” Clark for lunch, the speakeasy three blocks away from Guiseppe’s. Clark could almost see how he categorised all this in his mind, aligning each date into the greater narrative. He wondered if he had always been like this, so sharp and cold, or if it was something he had learned. He didn’t know how to ask.

‘All that sounds good to me. Anything I should do on my end?’ 

‘I’ll handle it.’ 

‘I appreciate it.’

‘Any time.’ Bruce said, and Clark almost believed it.

* * *

Central City was warmer than Metropolis. The Atlantic winds tore into the heat of the Metropolis summer, but the landlocked Central City was balmy and pleasant in June. 

They flew on Bruce’s jet again, and just like last time, the excess made Clark uneasy. He had considered asking Bruce for a compromise – maybe they could’ve flown first class together, or whatever is _above_ first class – but he had a feeling that Bruce would’ve answered the request with a raised eyebrow and a small sneer. Clark spent the flight reading through one of Lois’ longer pieces, an in-depth report on the American logging industry. It was dry and Clark more than once decided that staring out of the window was a more entertaining way to spend his time. Seeing the clouds like this was strange. He could almost feel their wet cold against his fingers, even though layers of plexiglass. Bruce was reading something on his tablet, taking notes and making calculations on a separate notepad. _What’s twelve times fifty three point seven?_ He asked aloud at one point, and when Clark gave him the answer at once (644.4), he frowned at Clark for several minutes but said nothing.

Bruce half-smiled at the airport concierge who gave him the keys to his rented car and palmed him a tip with effortless ease. Clark hung their suits on the hook in the backseat as Bruce filled the trunk with their luggage – Clark’s small cabin bag, Bruce’s sleek suitcase, and the case that contained the lightest Batsuit. (Thinking about it, he guessed that Bruce would not have been able to bring the Suit if he had flown commercially.)

‘Do you know… super math?’ Bruce asked when they were alone in the car.

Clark shrugged. 

‘Maybe? I’ve always thought it’s more of a speed thing. Not really thought too much about it, though.’ 

‘One day, we’ll have to figure out the full extent of your abilities.’ Bruce said, his focus on the road.

‘What, you’re going to get some Kryptonite-tipped needles, take my blood and sequence my DNA?’

Bruce didn’t say anything.

‘Oh my god, you _are_.’

Clark knew that Bruce owned the vast majority of all Kryptonite that still existed on Earth. He knew about the lead box on Batman’s utility belt. Still, he couldn’t help the slight feeling of wariness, knowing that the man who had once tried to kill him had the ability to do it again. Not that he thought Bruce ever _would_. Clark couldn’t think of anyone else in whose hands he would willingly lay his life.

‘The more we know about your powers, the better prepared we will be.’

‘Then why haven’t you done it already?’

‘I didn’t –‘ Bruce swore as he missed the GPS-directed turn and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited for the device to reroute. ‘I didn’t want to do it without talking to you. There never seemed to be the right time.’

‘You could’ve just asked me, y’know.’

Bruce pursed his lips as he crossed three lanes of traffic at a dizzying speed.

‘I know.’ He finally said, his face curiously blank.

‘We can do it when we get back. Do you need anything except my blood?’ Clark thought about the different samples Bruce could ask for and tried not to blush.

‘A saliva swab and some of your hair should be enough, I think.’

‘You’ll get it. This would help all of us. It’d help the team. I still don’t know everything I can do. I feel like at least once a year I discover something new.’

‘What’s that like?’

Clark looked at Bruce as he turned the question over in his mind. He wondered what it was like to be Bruce, so certain of how the world was and how the world _should_ be. He wondered what it was like to feel like you had figured the world out, only to discover that aliens and humans with unearthly powers existed. He was amazed that Bruce ever recovered his balance.

‘It’s weird.’

‘Mmm, there’s that journalistic talent.’ Bruce winked at him without taking his eye off the road.

‘I feel like I should have figured it out at this point, y’know? I’ve had my powers for _decades_ and I don’t know if it’s that I’m getting _new_ powers or if I’m able to, I don’t know, tap into them in new ways. I don’t know if it’s _me_ or if there are outside factors. The sun’s radiation is stronger than it was thirty years ago – are my powers different because of global warming? Or is it that I –’

Clark pauses, unwilling to acknowledge his own resurrection. 

‘Or that you came back from the dead.’ Bruce finished the sentence. Clark could hear the steering wheel’s leather creak under the pressure of Bruce’s fingers.

‘Yeah,’ Clark agreed.

They arrived at the hotel a few minutes later, and Clark was grateful that their arrival could bookend the conversation. Bruce charmed the concierges and front desk staff, letting them take all their luggage except the case with the Batsuit – _Important work documents, you know how it is_. Bruce laughed at the receptionist’s awkward jokes and accepted the room key cards with a megawatt smile.

‘Come on, babe,’ he said to Clark as he breezed towards the elevator.

‘When are we meeting Barry?’ Clark asked when they were alone in the elevator.

‘At two. It takes about fifteen minutes to get there without traffic, so we’ve got –‘ Bruce checked his watch, ‘something like an hour before we need to go.’

The idea of spending an hour alone with Bruce in a hotel room, with no agenda or plan, was both enticing and frightening to Clark.

The suite, of course, was ridiculous. It was laid out more like an apartment than a hotel room, with a separate office and a second bedroom, which was connected to a sizable balcony. Bruce placed the Batsuit case on the smaller bed and stepped out on the balcony, looking out at Central City. Clark had seen Batman survey his environment often enough that he could tell that Bruce was seeking out hand- and footholds.

‘Planning on going somewhere tonight?’ He asked, leaning against the doorframe.

A momentary jump of Bruce’s heart revealed that he hadn’t noticed that Clark was watching him. His voice was steady and laissez-faire as ever.

‘Never hurts to be prepared.’ He locked the balcony door and drew the curtain. ‘Who knows how boring the party tonight will be?’

‘What’s it about, anyway?’

Bruce shrugged.

‘A fundraising effort for one of the local hospitals. They invited me because they’re looking to get equipment from WayneTech and are hoping to butter me up so they can get a good deal.’

‘Will they?’

‘Get a good deal?’ Bruce was walking through the suite, checking for surveillance. ‘Yeah, but they’ll have to grovel for it. I don’t want them to think I’m going soft.’

‘But maybe a nice Midwestern boy like me would have helped you soften.’

Bruce snorted.

‘Maybe I should donate a few hundred grand’s worth of equipment just to impress you.’

He had kicked his shoes off and stepped onto the bed sprawled in the main room and was feeling the edges of the crown moulding for hidden microphones. Bruce standing on top of a bed gave Clark the sudden image of Bruce partaking in a pillow fight. The idea was ludicrous, and he laughed.

‘Something like that would impress me, sure.’

‘And they say you’re only with me for my looks,’ Bruce dropped his voice to his most sultry, the pitch curiously close to that of Batman’s threats.

Clark laughed again. Any witty reply he would’ve given was interrupted by the knock on the door. Clark smiled at the concierge who unloaded their luggage and tried to stay out of his way. Bruce took his bags and closed the door to the second bedroom.

When Bruce came back out, Clark had finally finished Lois’s article. He had changed and Clark cocked his head at his outfit – the well-cut jeans, the baseball cap with the Gotham Knights logo, the t-shirt with the WayneTech logo segmented into the colours of the rainbow.

‘What’s that?’ he asked and waved towards Bruce.

‘The shirt?’ Bruce adjusted his hat. ‘It’s the yearly WayneTech Pride shirt. You know tech companies: every now and then they’ll release a specially designed shirt that they can convince their employees to wear as free swag. This in turn gives the tech company free advertising whenever the employees go to the store or the gym, and builds this identity of a company that is more a family than a corporation. But I guess, between the catered lunches and the swag, WayneTech truly feeds and clothes its employees.’

‘You’re sounding pretty cynical there, Bruce. What does your staff think of your attitude?’

‘I’ll have you know that Glassdoor tells me that 93% of WayneTech employees approve of their CEO.’ Bruce paused for a second. ‘That’s me, in case you forgot.’

‘Oh, I remember. And I was actually asking _why_ you were wearing the shirt, not what the shirt was. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so dressed down.’

‘I’d prefer to keep a low profile when we meet Barry. I don’t need anyone trying to figure out how we know each other.’

‘Right, so that’s why you’re wearing the logo of the biggest sports team in Gotham and a t-shirt with your own company’s logo. I do like that you chose a pride shirt, though.’ Bruce looked different enough that Clark imagined it was unlikely that anyone would recognise him. ‘So if anyone does recognise you, what’s the story with Barry?’

‘We’ll say you know him. Let’s say he contacted you to learn how to become a writer a few weeks back and you decided to meet him in person now that you serendipitously ended up in the same city as him. And you brought me along because you couldn’t stand being apart from me on our first vacation together.’

‘I guess it _is_ our first vacation together.’

‘Well, there was Russia,’ Bruce said and pulled on a jean jacket, ‘but that was more of a working vacation. Are you ready to go?’

‘Yeah, let’s head out.’

Clark let Bruce lead the way, talk to the concierge, drive them to their rendezvous. They drove in silence, but it was a comfortable silence.

They met Barry at a hole in the wall on the far side of town. It was a small and cosy space that made Clark think of the diner back in Smallville. Barry had pulled them both into hugs when they arrived, and Clark laughed at Bruce’s uncomfortable grin when the young man wrapped his arms around him.

‘You’re paying, right?’ Barry said and returned to his seat, turning over the laminated menu.

Clark filed into the booth and Bruce sat down next to him. They were close enough that Clark could feel the heat of Bruce’s leg against his thigh.

‘My treat.’

Barry looked at the menu with fierce concentration and didn’t say anything. When a waitress arrived, he smiled brilliantly at her.

‘Hi! I would like a number five with extra onion rings, a number seventeen, and a slice of peach pie, please. Oh, and a strawberry milkshake.’

The waitress blinked at him.

‘I didn’t have any breakfast,’ he explained brightly. She frowned, but took down the order and turned.

‘And for you, sirs?’ 

‘I’ll have the burger combo, thank you. And a coke, please.’ Clark held out his menu and the waitress slotted it under her arm. She raised her eyebrows at Bruce, expectant.

‘I’ll have the avocado omelette.’

‘That comes with a side, either fries or salad. Which do you want?’

‘Salad, please. No dressing. And a mint tea, please.’

‘Coming right up!’ The waitress smiled and gathered the menus from Bruce and Barry.

‘That is the blandest order I have _ever_ heard, Bats.’ Bruce pursed his lips and gave Barry a stern look. ‘OK, sorry, B.’

‘Some of us don’t have a superhuman metabolism.’

‘I like your outfit, though. You look like a hot dad who just got divorced.’

‘ _How_ is that a compliment?’ Still, Bruce laughed.

‘It’s just that double denim is a hard look to pull off but you’re doing it. And I like the shirt. It’s a good shirt.’

‘Thanks,’ Bruce frowned as though he wasn’t sure if Barry was genuine. ‘How are you doing, Barry?’

Clark knew that Bruce had felt responsible or Barry right from the start. He had been the one to bring Barry into the league, and Clark believed that Barry’s age made Bruce nervous. He was enthusiastic and driven, but not always practical nor guaranteed to truly think things through. It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t trust Barry, but Clark doubted he trusted him to always make good decisions on his own.

‘I’m good, B. I’m great, actually. The new suit’s amazing – it’s so smooth and just,’ Barry kissed his fingertips, ‘so I really appreciate you sending it over.’

‘You sent Barry a suit?’ Clark asked.

‘After the alien attack, his suit was damaged. I thought it was a good opportunity to get something a little more sturdy put together. It was nothing.’

The way Bruce said it, Clark almost believed him. Bruce wouldn’t have considered this a kindness or a sign of friendship, but something that was expected of him.

‘Super love it, anyway.’ Barry said.

The waitress arrived with their drinks. Barry inhaled his milkshake and Bruce looked at him, eyebrows furrowed.

‘But yeah, I’m good. Work’s kinda boring, but fine.’ Barry poked at the bubbles at the bottom of his glass with a straw. ‘Kinda met someone.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Clark knew that Bruce wouldn’t take the lead on a conversation about dating, so he stepped in.

‘Yeah, she’s…’ Barry chewed on his lip, glanced over at Bruce, and hesitated before continuing. ‘She’s, like, super cool and I think I’m in love and I wanna tell her.’

‘That’s inadvisable.’ Bruce said flatly.

‘Wait, the “telling her” part or the “in love” part?’

Clark noticed how Barry’s eyes, for the barest flicker of a moment, skated over him as he said _in love_. Bruce couldn’t have noticed.

‘Your feelings are your business, but telling some girl about your identity is not wise.

Bruce paused as the waitress approached, one finger raised to show that he was not done talking. She dished out the food, a veritable mountain in front of Barry. Bruce acknowledged the waitress with a tight smile.

‘Thank you.’ He waited another few moments for the waitress to get out of earshot, before leaning across the table. ‘You don’t know who she is, what she wants, or anything.’

‘Yes, I do. I know that she’s cool, she’s kind, she wants to be an investigative reporter.’

‘Christ.’ Bruce started on his omelet, cutting it in precise triangles. ‘Do millennials not know that print media is dying?’

‘Says the man who owns a newspaper,’ Clark cut in, reaching across the table to grab the ketchup.

‘Clark told Lois.’ Barry pointed out.

‘That was different,’ Bruce explained. ‘Lois didn’t know _Clark_ , and the situation they were in had already made it clear that she was trustworthy.’

‘So if Clark wanted to tell someone who he was, you wouldn’t stop him?’

‘Yes, I would, but I can’t imagine who he would need to tell. And if you reveal your identity you’re not just putting yourself and your family at risk, but _everyone_ ,’ Bruce raised his eyebrows as though to indicate the League as a whole, ‘and you could jeopardise the entire operation.’

‘You’re not my dad, and you can’t tell me what to do.’ Barry griped, the effect diminished by his current attempt to add fries to his burger without destroying the structural integrity of the sandwich.

Bruce gritted his teeth.

Clark understood where Barry was coming from. He was young; he was in love; he had found someone for the _first time_ to whom he wanted to tell the full truth – someone who _wasn’t_ also a vigilante. At the same time, Clark also understood where Bruce. Barry could be reckless; Barry could act without thinking and had more than once ended up in trouble for it.

‘I _know_ I’m not your father.’ Bruce said tightly. Without thinking about it, Clark reached up and stroked Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce exhaled at the touch.

‘Maybe we can find a compromise?’ Clark asked between bites of his burger.

‘What do you suggest?’ Barry had finished his first meal and slid the empty plate to the edge of the table.

‘Bruce, can you do that stalkerish thing you’re so good at?’

‘Do you mean my background checks?’ Bruce was still frowning. Clark wondered if Barry’s throwaway comment about how Bruce wasn’t his dad had actually hurt his feelings.

‘Yeah. What if you run a background check on this girl that Barry likes and if it all comes back green, he can tell her?’

‘And if it ends up going badly, I can just run fast enough to travel in time. Problem solved!’

‘ _No_ .’ Bruce jabbed his fork at Barry. ‘Don’t even _joke_ about time travel. You have no idea what damage you could cause.’

Barry and Clark watched Bruce attack his omelet for a few moments, waiting for him to address the actual suggestion.

‘So… if I promise not to travel in time, what do you think of Clark’s idea?’ Barry placed his second empty plate on top of the first.

‘Do you just _like_ her or are you actually,’ Bruce waved his fork, ‘ _seeing_ her.’

‘Oh, I’m seeing her. We’ve been on like, seven dates. And, if we’re talking baseball metaphors, we’ve made it to–‘

‘Stop.’ Bruce said. ‘Do _not_ tell me about that.’

‘That’s no fair, everyone and their mother knows about how you get your rocks off.’

Bruce’s glare was glacial and the silence stretched on. Barry shifted in his seat under his stare.

‘If you’re dating someone who works in media, you should know that almost everything you’d find in a gossip column is false. Or at least incredibly exaggerated.’ Bruce finally said, taking a sip of his tea.

‘So you’re saying you _didn’t_ whisk off an entire ballerina troupe on a yacht vacation?’

‘I had good reasons to do that, and virtually nothing that was reported in the press actually took place.’ Bruce sighed. ‘You feel certain about this girl?’

‘Yeah, I’m crazy about her.’

‘Crazy about doesn’t mean certain, Barry.’

‘Okay, _fine_ , I’m certain about her.’ Barry dolloped cream on his pie. He sighed wistfully. ‘When I see her I feel like I’m in the speed force and standing still all at once.’

Bruce finished his salad and considered the rest of the omelet in front of him for a moment.

‘What’s her name?’ He finally asked.

‘You’ll do it?’ Barry grinned. ‘Her name’s Iris West.’

‘I’ll look into her. I’ll let you know what I find. Do _not_ tell her anything until I give you the all clear.’

‘You got it, boss.’ Barry winked. ‘So, anyway, what’s new with you?’

* * *

Clark didn’t know if Bruce ordered a bottle of champagne on room service every time he was due to go to a party, or if it was just something he did when Clark was there. Bruce had opened this bottle with another silent _pop!_ and poured them each a glass. Bruce puttered about the suite, champagne flute in hand, collecting his clothes and accessories. Something in the way he walked gave Clark the impression that he was – maybe not angry, but in some kind of a mood.

‘He’s just a kid, you know.’ Clark said when he came out of the bathroom, aggressively towelling his hair to get the moisture out before getting dressed. ‘You don’t have to be so hard on him.’

‘What?’ Bruce looked up from his tablet.

‘Barry. You seem grumpy and I was assuming you were still mad at Barry.’

‘I’m not _grumpy_ and I’m not mad at Barry.’ Bruce put his tablet aside, swung his suit over an arm, and picked up his champagne flute. ‘I’m taking a shower.’

When Clark heard the bathroom door creak open again, he was mostly ready. Thankfully, this benefit did not require black tie, and Clark had managed a decent knot on his corn blue tie. He was half-convinced that Bruce would decide that his Windsor was not nice enough, but at least he was able to dress himself. He adjusted his cufflinks and poured himself some more champagne. Bruce returned to the living room area.

Clark had seen Bruce in all-black before – hell, Clark _typically_ saw Bruce in all-black, albeit leather and Kevlar – but it was always striking. Both suit and shirt were a deep opaque black, making the grey in his slicked-back hair almost glitter in the light. His tie was a charcoal grey, and silver gleamed at his wrists and by his neck.

‘I like your outfit,’ Clark said at last. Bruce shrugged in response and looked Clark over.

‘That Windsor won’t do. Come here.’ Bruce downed his champagne and got to work. Five minutes later, he stepped back and studied his work. ‘That should be better.’

‘That’s a ridiculous knot, Bruce.’ Clark looked at himself in the mirror, and touched the complex knot that was folded over itself. ‘What’s it called?’

‘Eldredge.’ Bruce upended the rest of his champagne into his glass. ‘The dress code may be more relaxed, but it’s still a party, not a business meeting.’

‘Aren’t _you_ wearing a Windsor?’

Bruce took a swig of champagne. Clark could hear his heart, a little faster than usual. He didn’t know what was making Bruce nervous.

‘A half-Windsor. With a collar bar any knot heavier than that will be too bulky, and anything more complex would look busy.’ Bruce touched his own tie, moving as though adjusting it, even though it was already perfect. ‘ _Busy_ isn’t what I’m going for.’

‘What are you going for?’

Bruce looked up from feeling his suit pockets – checking for his cheque book, Clark presumed – and grinned.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know, kid?’

Clark shrugged, but he _did_ want to know.

* * *

At the benefit, it became clear to Clark that what Bruce had been going for was flirtatious, charming, and handsy. Bruce would not stop touching Clark. When he was chatting with some senior medical director, his fingers traced patterns along Clark’s back. When he was half-arguing with a businessman about Wayne Enterprises’ five-year revenue projections, he was holding Clark’s hand like a vice. When they were waiting at the bar for their drinks, Bruce’s nose touched his ear as he murmured information about their fellow guests.

They had been at the party for almost two hours and Bruce Wayne was well on his way to drunk. Clark wasn’t sure how much of it was pretend and how much of it was real. If he was acting, it was as good an act as he ever gave. They were standing at the edge of a circle of conversation, though Clark wasn’t sure what was being discussed.

‘Hey, I’ve got a question for you,’ Bruce said with a hand on Clark’s lapel, his voice too loud. Several of the party-goers next to them turned to look at him. Bruce Wayne making a fool of himself at a party wasn’t new, but it had been a while.

‘Yeah?’ Clark could hear Bruce’s heart, almost beating as fast as Clark’s.

‘Yeah, it’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask.’ Bruce grinned a wide grin, before licking his lips and smiling again. ‘So, I’ll ask the question, and then you’ll answer it, and then, we’ll, we’ll take it from there.’

‘Okay.’

If he had been anyone else, Clark would have been worried that Bruce really was drunk and about to ask something incriminating. If it had been Barry – if _Barry_ had been able to get drunk – he would have been certain he was about to be exposed as Superman. With Bruce, he didn’t have that worry, but he had never seen Bruce be _quite_ so mercurial before.

‘Okay, okay, okay.’ Bruce was tapping his hands across his chest, looking for something. Even more people had paused their conversations to watch them. Clark stepped from foot to foot, uncomfortably aware of the attention being paid to them. ‘A question.’

‘Yes, Bruce?’

Bruce’s face lit up for a moment before he exhaled, a long shuddering exhale. Clark noticed that Bruce was clenching one of his fists.

‘The question, Mr Clark Kent, is:’ and a little unsteadily, Bruce dropped down on one knee, opening the velvet box he had been hiding in his fist, ‘Will you marry me?’

Clark stared down at Bruce. He was smiling wider than he ever did, his eyes wide, his face open. Clark could not think of a time when Bruce had ever looked more like the man Clark wished he were (open, kind, loving). He could hear Bruce’s heart hammering in his chest. He could almost see how Bruce was calculating all the potential results of this one action. He didn’t know if everyone at the party was watching them, but he could feel dozens upon dozens of gazes trained on him. 

Bruce’s smile flickered and Clark realised he had been standing in dumb silence for far too long. Some of the people watching had started tittering to each other.

‘Yes,’ he blurted out, quick and flustered and joyful. ‘Yes, of course I’ll marry you.’


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Clark get married and finally, finally, talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re at the end!!! This fic started with me writing two of the speeches in this chapter (Lois’ + Alfred’s) and then going “whoops guess I gotta write the rest”. Almost 60k words later, here we are. Originally I had intended to write a chapter about the wedding planning, but every angle I tried felt wrong, and I finally decided it wasn’t truly necessary. The only half-interesting thing that ended up being cut was an accidental sleepover where they did wedding planning homework by talking about what they like about each other. It was better in theory than in practice. Apart from that rambling, the only thing to note is that the reading Martha does is Ecclesiastes 3:1-3:8. You may also wonder “are they really drinking champagne at three separate occasions at this wedding?” The answer is yes. Yes, they are.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Thank you so so much for all the kudos and comments. They have warmed my heart immensely.

It was the first Saturday in September, and Clark Kent was about to get married. 

Outside, it was raining. He could hear the pitter-patter of rain hitting car roofs, skirting off of umbrellas, and splashing to the pavement. That morning he had seen the first yellowing leaves of the season, beckoning the start of autumn. Gotham felt the most _right_ in fall: the grey skies and cold felt welcome and felt less menacing, more like an excuse for heavy socks and hot cups of tea curled up under a blanket. Still. Clark would have liked to see some sun on his wedding day.

The wedding was starting in twenty-one minutes. On the other side of the small room where they were waiting, Bruce was bouncing his right leg and chewing his lip. Clark had never seen him so visibly nervous.

‘Stop that,’ he said.

‘Stop what?’ Bruce reached up to push his hair, before catching himself. Clark didn’t know how much he had paid the hair stylist who had coiffed them both, and he definitely did not want to ask.

‘Biting your lip. You’ll chew off skin and then you’ll be mad about it.’

‘I wouldn’t be mad about that.’

‘Yes, you would.’ Clark said, and couldn’t hide a smile when Bruce released his lip and pouted. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

’Yeah, I’m fine.’ Bruce said, but Clark could feel that his pulse was elevated, rushing in comparison to his regular steady pace. ‘Are you?’

‘I’m feeling good.’ And he _was_ feeling good, happy and content. Somewhere in the last two months he had made peace with it: that he was in love with Bruce; that he would never tell him; that Bruce would never love him. Bruce was fond of him, sure, in that indefinable and strange way he would allow himself to care. ‘It’s strange it’s finally here.’

Bruce exhaled through his nose, the sound intended to be either a laugh or a noise of agreement.

The door slammed open and both of them jumped.

‘Sorry.’ Dick made a face and stepped into the room, followed by one of the photographers. ‘I wanted to say hi. And this guy wanted to take some photos. And, just so you know, I think Marcia is on her way. How are you holding up?’

‘We’re good.’

Maybe it was that their wedding planner was on her way, or maybe it was because his son was there, but Bruce got up and put on his jacket again. Clark allowed himself to stare as the two spoke. Bruce’s morning suit was a grey flirting with black, the trousers and waistcoat the same deep shade. A pocket watch sat in his waistcoat pocket – a watch that, although Bruce hadn’t admitted it, Clark knew he had taken from his father’s long-untouched jewellery. The ascot tied around his neck was a lighter grey, softly patterned. The wingtips of his shirt rested gently on the tie; the cufflinks at his wrists – another set of pieces taken from his father’s collection – gleamed and glittered the chandelier light. His shoes were polished enough to reflect the ceiling. He was all monochrome but for the red rose on his lapel.

He was so beautiful.

Distantly, Clark could hear the photographer move around the room, taking pictures.

‘You’re looking great, both of you.’ This wasn’t the first time Dick had seen them today, and it wasn’t the first time he had told them how nice they looked. He had spent most of the day helping the wedding planner, a responsibility that Clark assumed that he had volunteered for, not been told to do. ‘I like the contrast.’

Clark’s own suit was a lighter grey, closer to Bruce’s ascot. His own ascot was a dark grey, paralleling the other suit. His boutonnière was a white rose against leafy greens. _With your colouring, you won’t need any bright colours_ , Bruce had said when they had met the florist, and although Clark wanted to protest, the wedding planner had hummed in agreement, and he let it slide. Seeing his reflection in the corner of the room, he had to admit that Bruce knew what he was talking about.

‘Richard, what are you doing here? You’re needed up front. James was asking where you had run off to.’ Marcia had appeared, a tablet clutched at her chest, sharp heels clacking against the marble floor.

‘I just wanted to wish them good luck. Y’know, tell them not to flub their lines. Don’t worry, I’m on my way out.’ Dick had his hands in his pockets, the brilliant blue of his ascot reflected in his eyes.

‘Go. We’re fine.’ Bruce nudged his shoulder with a closed fist. He seemed surprised when Dick leaned in for a hug, but snaked an arm around him. ‘Mind the flower, don’t crush it.’

‘Love you,’ Dick said against his neck.

‘Love you,’ Bruce echoed, with none of the hesitation Clark had grown to expect when it came to any expression of emotion.

‘And I love you, too,’ Dick added as he wrapped his arms around Clark, careful to lean the embrace on the opposite side of the flower. ‘You’re gonna be great. I’m so happy for you. See you when you’re getting married.’

He gave a lazy two-fingered salute to them both before he left. Dick had never said that he loved Clark before, and he was oddly touched.

‘Right, now that _he_ is getting in place,’ Marcia muttered and flipped her tablet open. ‘We are running just a few minutes late, so I need you to be ready to walk down the aisle in, hm, twelve minutes. We’ve had a few guests who are unable to make it, do you want me to – Clark, what did you do with your tie?’

‘Let me. It’s just a little crooked.’ Bruce adjusted the ascot, and Clark tipped his head back. He held his breath when he felt the brush of Bruce’s lips against his jaw before he stepped back again. ‘All better. Is that acceptable, Marcia?’

Marcia frowned before she nodded.

‘Yes, that’ll do.’

She spent the next several minutes outlining the fires she had spent the last hour putting out, none of which sounded like more than minor inconveniences. Clark listened with half an ear and tried to figure out what to do with his hands. In the end, he mimicked Bruce and rested them behind his back.

In no time at all, a loud alarm blared from the wedding planner’s tablet.

‘Okay, it’s go time. Remember, Bruce to the right, Clark to the left. And walk _slowly_. You were both far too fast in the rehearsal. I know you want to be married already, but you can wait the forty-three seconds you were fast last time.’ Marcia nodded at them both, ready to leave. ‘I’ll see you on the other side.’

‘Could we have a moment?’ Bruce looked at the photographer, who shrunk away, closing the door behind him. Bruce exhaled. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Bruce, we’ve talked about this.’ And they had talked about this, Bruce asking near-daily in the last three weeks, constantly confirming that Clark was okay with this, that Clark didn’t want to back out. ‘I’d almost think _you_ don’t want to do this.’

Bruce grinned, a slanted smile that crinkled the corners of his ears.

‘I’m not a quitter.’ He insisted, nudging his shoulder with his fist. ‘Come on, it’s time to go. I need you on my left. Let’s get married.’

* * *

When they had first begun to plan the wedding, it had quickly become clear that neither Bruce nor Clark really had any friends. Clark had Lois and Jimmy. He had his mother. Bruce had Alfred and Dick. He had Lucius, in the way a fellow C-suite executive would be a friend. James Gordon, who had agreed to officiate, was an acquaintance at best, even though he knew Batman well. (It was definitely strange that a masked vigilante would have more people he could consider a friend than a handsome billionaire could.) They discussed inviting members from the League, but justifying how either Bruce or Clark knew most of them proved impossible. After much deliberation, they invited Barry and Diana – they had at least met those in a civilian context. Diana had laughed in delight when Dick called her to invite her, and offered to patrol Metropolis and Gotham that night instead, so they could celebrate their joyful day – her words, not theirs – without any anxiety. Barry had also declined, saying that the idea of being around _that_ many rich people seemed like a nightmare and he didn’t trust himself not to say something stupid. As such, the vast majority of the wedding guest list was made up of the cream of Gotham’s high society, who would hobnob over glasses of champagne and discuss the latest charities that either did or did not deserve their support.

For that reason, Clark wasn’t surprised that he barely recognised anyone as they walked down the aisle, even though he felt hundreds of pairs of eyes on him. He kept his eyes focused on the front of the room, where the Commissioner waited with Dick, whose grin was bright enough to charge solar panels. He kept the ring box between his thumb and forefinger, spinning it with his free hand. Clark wondered if Bruce minded the fidgeting. He couldn’t ask, not now, not while they were making their way down the aisle.

He snuck a glance out at the crowd after they made it to the front, after Gordon had positioned them both in their designated spots. He could see his mother in the front row, tears brimming in her eyes. He grinned at her, and she smiled back at him. He turned back to Bruce, who was watching him with an incredible focus.

Eight and a half minutes later, they were married.

Bruce looked a little lost once it was done, and stood frozen when the commissioner declared their marriage legal in the eyes of the law.

‘You may kiss.’ Gordon said, and Bruce didn’t move.

So Clark leaned in and kissed him, soft and short. When he pulled back, Bruce smiled, an uncharacteristically small and self-satisfied grin.

The ceremony was short. They sat in the chairs prepared for them as they listened to Clark’s mother do the reading that Bruce had selected. _To everything there is a season_ , she began, and Bruce bowed his head and closed his eyes. His grip on Clark’s hand would have been enough to bruise a normal man. Clark listened to his mother, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin between Bruce’s thumb and finger. She didn’t cry, although her voice wavered a few times. She smiled as she finished the reading. _A time of war, and a time of peace._

At the end of the ceremony, they walked back down the aisle and followed the photographer for the pictures. The Gotham Ritz had a rooftop greenhouse, the kind of excess no city other than Gotham would even consider. When Bruce had suggested the hotel for the wedding, the planner had insisted that the greenhouse was the place for the post-ceremony photographs. _You want to show that your love is blossoming, see_ , she insisted, and Bruce shrugged and agreed.

‘We actually did it,’ he said, sounding dazed, ‘we actually got married.’

Clark didn’t know if he should acknowledge the photographer in the elevator with them. He decided that he could focus on Bruce.

‘Feeling okay about it?’ He asked, again rubbing his thumb over his hand.

‘Yeah.’ Bruce tugged at his hand. ‘Come here.’

Bruce pulled Clark to him, wrapping an arm around him and threading his fingers through his hair. Clark rested his face against his shoulder, feeling the rose tickle his throat. They stayed like that for the rest of the elevator ride, and Clark found himself thinking that they would make a wonderful photograph. Bruce’s fingers were soft in his hair.

‘I can hear your heart,’ he said to break the silence that had dragged on too long.

‘Can’t you always?’ Bruce murmured against his hair, his nose buried in the curls.

‘Yours, yes. I could pick you out in a crowd of a thousand.’ It was true, of course, but he had never told Bruce that before.

‘How does my heart sound?’

Clark inhaled and listened to the steady thrum of Bruce’s heart.

‘Healthy. Strong. It sounds like you.’

He could feel Bruce’s laughter, the movement of his chest against him, as much as he could hear it.

‘That’s who I want to be.’ He said, kissing Clark’s hair before the _ding_ of the elevator announced they had reached the greenhouse.

Clark didn’t much enjoy the photographs – being directed where to go, how to look, when to smile were all things that grated at him – and he was grateful when Bruce called the session off early. _I’m bored_ , he announced with the mercurial patience of someone who had never had to work. _Let’s go down to the reception_.

The reception started with a cocktail hour. Clark knew that Bruce would soon be pulled in by business acquaintances, but he wanted to see his mother.

He used his super-vision for just a moment to find where she was in the throng of guests, before letting it recede. He didn’t really want to be Superman today. Today, he was happy just being Clark Kent. He held Bruce’s hand and walked them through the crowds, barely giving him time to gladhand the people they passed. There would be time for that. Martha was standing in a corner with Alfred and Dick, each of them nursing a coupe of champagne. Alfred had conjured up a serving plate of crudités and Dick picked through the vegetables with leisurely ease.

Clark wrapped his arms around his mother and lifted her up. When he put her back on the ground, she put her hands on his face and smiled at him through the tears.

‘Ma, you don’t have to cry.’

‘It’s _happy_ crying,’ she insisted, but dabbed at her eyes and leaned in to kiss his cheeks. ‘It was a beautiful ceremony. I haven’t been to a more beautiful wedding, and that’s including my _own_ wedding. You should be proud.’

‘It was mostly Bruce, really.’ Clark glanced over at Bruce, who was watching them. ‘He’s the one who deserves the praise.’

‘Nonsense,’ Bruce smiled at Martha and leaned down to kiss her cheeks, accepting her arms around him, ‘but please don’t cry. It will stain my suit.’

He winked. Clark smiled at Dick and Alfred, who watched Bruce with fond amusement. 

‘Congratulations, sir.’ Alfred smiled at him behind thick glasses. ‘Your mother was right; it was a beautiful ceremony.’

‘Thank you.’ Clark said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

‘Should I call you dad now?’ Dick asked, leaning in for a one-armed side hug.

‘Absolutely not.’ Bruce interjected with a laugh.

‘Yeah, Clark’s fine.’

‘I like that you got married first thing.’ Dick said as he studied the crudité plate for any remaining celery. ‘A lot of weddings go on _forever_ with songs and speeches and whatever, when all the guests want is to see people get hitched. The songs and all can take place _after_ the knot is tied.’

Bruce chuckled.

‘I’m glad we met with your approval. Thank you for taking care of the rings.’

‘Anytime.’ Then Dick frowned, backtracked. ‘Well, not anytime, because you’re married now and this one –’ he pointed with a carrot stick at both of them, ‘is going to stick.’

Everyone laughed.

They stayed with Martha, Dick, and Alfred for several minutes, idly chatting about nothing. Clark kept playing with his wedding band, and Bruce’s hand rested possessively on his shoulder. Bruce kept smiling. Finally, he leaned into Clark’s ear, his hand dropping down his back.

‘Darling, I think it’s time for us to mingle a little. We should try to be polite to people before dinner starts.’ Bruce checked his pocket watch. ‘Do you have it in you to be polite to members of high society for the next hour?’

‘I’ll do my best.’ Clark promised.

They had barely left their circle before someone called their names.

‘Mr Wayne, Mr Kent – or is it Kent-Wayne now? – I’d like to offer my felicitations.’

Clark didn’t recognise the man who approached them. He was maybe slightly older than Clark, and the way he carried himself spoke of wealth and privilege. Blonde and handsome in the way many of the upper crust of society tended to be, he would have been utterly unremarkable if it hadn’t been for his curled goatee.

‘Mr Queen, isn’t it?’ Bruce’s face split into the smile he saved for potential investors and those he actually wanted to impress and offered his hand. ‘Clark, this is Oliver Queen, head of Queen Industries out in Star City. I appreciate you coming out, Mr Queen. I’ve been meaning to make my way out there for years, so I’m happy to finally get to meet you.’

‘Oh, the pleasure is all mine. Beautiful ceremony – really! I was surprised to be invited, seeing as we’ve never met, but better late than never, huh?’

Oliver Queen smiled with the same lazy confidence that Bruce so often projected. Clark wondered what he was hiding.

‘Indeed, yes.’ Bruce put his hand between Clark’s shoulder blades and smiled again. ‘I actually have some business I’d like to talk to you about, but I can’t say this is the right time. I’ve better things to do today, after all. I believe I might be able to make my way out to Star City in a few weeks – maybe we could meet?’

‘I would be honoured. I’ve always thought that Wayne Enterprises would be better to have as an ally than a competitor. I look forward to it.’ Oliver smiled at both of them in turn. ‘I’m sure you’re incredibly busy, and there are many demands on your time. I just wanted to say congratulations, again. Love is truly a blessing.’

‘Truly.’ Bruce replied, non-committal, and waited for Queen to leave before he leaned over to whisper in Clark’s ear. ‘Did you recognise him?’

‘No, should I know who he is?’ The name was vaguely familiar – Clark wondered if he’d maybe read about him in one of Cat Grant’s lists of the most eligible bachelor millionaires in the US.

‘He’s Green Arrow.’ Bruce withdrew and raised his eyebrows.

‘You’re kidding.’

The Justice League had, on and off, tried to get in touch with the Green Arrow of Star City for the better part of a year. More than once, Superman had flown to the city to talk to him, and each time the hero had politely, but firmly, rejected any conversation. His stubbornness rivaled Batman’s.

‘It took me a few months to confirm it, but I’m sure.’ Bruce grabbed a couple of coupes of champagne and passed one to Clark. ‘And now we have an in. I would have preferred for him to not meet _me_ first, but it can’t be helped.’

‘Thank you.’ Clark meant the thanks both for the champagne and for Bruce’s endeavours with the Arrow.

‘Don’t worry about it. You can think of it as a wedding gift.’ Bruce smiled and turned his attention to the next guest with pearls around her neck, who had approached to offer her well-wishes. ‘Samantha! Always such a delight.’

The next half an hour continued with Bruce meeting and smiling at vague acquaintances and business partners, his fingers wrapped around Clark’s. Some of them addressed Clark directly, offered congratulations to him, too, but the majority of them seemed uncertain how to place him and only offered a smile. Bruce was in fine form, charm turned up to ten. 

At five thirty, a bell rang and Marcia the wedding planner announced to all that it was time for everyone to seat themselves for dinner.

‘The bell has been rung,’ Clark muttered to Bruce as they waited for the crowds to clear before heading to the second Ritz ballroom, repurposed for the night to be a lavish dining room. Bruce’s laugh, too, was like a set of bells, bright and clear.

The room was dotted with large oval tables, and the guests reviewed a large plaque with tables and names to find their seats. Bruce had decided where everyone was going to sit, and from certain disgruntled sounds, Clark wondered if some of the placements were intentionally poorly chosen.

Their table was at the head of the ballroom: round, with only two table settings. Bruce pulled out Clark’s chair for him and sat down opposite him. Two sets of wine glasses and a bouquet of white peonies and carnations, off-set by a pair of blood red roses, separated them. 

‘All good?’ Bruce asked as he leaned back in his chair to stay out of the way of the server who had brought them both their soups. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘Yeah, I’m great.’ Clark exhaled again.

‘Not too loud?’ He picked up his spoon and raised his eyebrows at Clark.

‘No, no, I knew what to expect this time. But it’s odd having so many people looking at me.’

‘Is it?’

Bruce smiled knowingly at him. Their wedding guest list, though large, was mincemeat compared to the number of people who would watch Superman at work.

‘You know what I mean,’ Clark griped and tasted the soup. ‘What is this?’

‘It’s a creme ninon. It’s pea soup for rich people,’ Bruce explained before he dug in.

‘What makes it for rich people, particularly?’

‘The champagne, mostly.’

‘There’s champagne in the soup?’ Clark asked. Around them, the other guests had also been served, and the din of pleasant dinner conversation was getting louder.

‘Just to finish it off. And some cream, of course.’ Bruce sipped the champagne they had been served and shrugged. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s delicious, of course. I just never expected pea soup to be so _fancy_.’

‘Truly. Not a ham hock in sight.’ Bruce grinned at him.

The soup course was followed by a small yet elegant plate of seafood, and a new wine to go with it. They didn’t speak much, but Clark could feel Bruce’s eyes on him, his calm gaze unsettling in its focus. When he would glance up from his plate, when he would raise the glass to his lips, there would be something close to a smile on Bruce’s lips and something indescribable hiding in the furrow between his eyebrows. 

When the server had taken Bruce’s and Clark’s second set of plates, Marcia made a signal to show that it was time for the first of the speeches.

‘Miss Lane, it’s your time to shine,’ she told Lois before disappearing again.

As if on cue, the room stilled when Lois stood up.

She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear before she started. She was beautiful tonight, just like every night, and she smiled at Clark softly before she began. An encouragement, even when all he was doing was watching her.

‘Hi,’ she started. ‘When Clark first told me that he and Bruce were dating, I was so disappointed.’ An amused susurration spread through the room. Clark looked over at Bruce, and the corner of his mouth twitched. (Once he started looking at Bruce, he couldn't stop. Throughout the speech, he listened to Lois while staring at his _husband_ .) ‘I had only met Bruce Wayne a few times then, and I didn't know him well. I mostly knew the narrative the tabloids enjoy pushing: brash, brazen, handsome to a fault, and with a new woman on his arm every week.’ She paused. The crowd glanced over at Bruce and saw him scrunch up his face, false embarrassment painted on his face. Clark knew better. Bruce was loving this. Lois licked her lips, paused for a second. ‘Many years ago, Clark and I dated. We were pretty serious, but we ended up breaking up. It wasn't meant to be. Afterwards, our desks at work were still close, and as I'm sure many of you know, _not_ being friends with Clark Kent is like Superman _not_ saving the world.’

Bruce laughed at that, his eyes twinkling. He glanced over at Clark and tempered his smile, soft and fond.

‘So I was worried for him, when he told me. I was worried about Bruce Wayne being the worst of the rumours about him, and that he would hurt the most wonderful person in the world. But then I got to know Bruce better, and he is everything and nothing like the media portrays him to be. Being a journalist, I should've known this. But I didn't. He is brash and brazen, yes, but only when the situation requires it. He definitely _is_ handsome to a fault. But who's complaining, right?’ She winked in Clark's direction, and he grinned back. The crowd laughed. ‘And as for the playboy narrative, I think we can all safely say that that period of his life is behind him. But there are other things about Bruce that people don't know. That the newspapers don't focus on. He is kind. He is generous. He is a devoted father.

She nodded to Dick, who nodded and grinned, as though to say: _yup, devoted father alright._

‘He is a great boss. Not many billionaires will have employees who speak so fondly of him. But, most importantly, at least for this speech: he is a perfect partner for Clark. If nothing else proves this, let me present exhibit A. He has managed what no one else ever has: get him to get a pair of glasses that actually suit his face.

Bruce gave a _whoop!_ in response to this. Clark pushed up his glasses and, on a whim, moved his chair. While Lois spoke, he shifted his chair so instead of sitting opposite Bruce at their round table, he sat next to him. Bruce glanced over at him when he sat down, and a quick smile passed over his face. Bruce was all smiles today. Clark wondered if he was selfish for wanting him to smile like this forever.

‘Glasses aside, there are other reasons they are perfect for another. They temper each other's worst tendencies: Clark tends to jump into situations and be the good guy, without stopping to think about a plan. Bruce, if anything, plans too much. Between the two, they strike a balance. They are better together than they ever were apart.’

She continued this argument for a few more moments: that they were two parts of a whole; that although they did fine on their own, they were so much better together; that each of us would be so lucky to find someone who complements us so well. Her voice broke and she took a second to wipe away a stray tear before continuing. It was as though Lois didn't know it wasn't a real relationship. Yet, Clark knew, everything she said was true. They _were_ better together. Emboldened, Clark reached out and hesitantly reached out and stroked Bruce's arm. Bruce turned his wrist and offered his hand. Their fingers fit perfectly. Lois turned to speak directly to Bruce.

‘Bruce. All this to say: I might have loved him first. But I have no doubt that it is you who love him best.’

She raised her glass to scattered shouts of _hear hear!_ Bruce and Clark raised their glasses for the toast. The silver band glittered on Bruce's ring finger. Clark glanced down at his own hand, where his gold ring gleamed. The woman in the store had frowned when Bruce had suggested this, arguing that rings should _match_ . Bruce had put on his most egregious billionaire voice and told her that he didn't care what tradition said, all he cared about was what _he_ wanted. A gold ring and a silver ring, both inscribed with the word _Justice_. The jeweler had been assuaged by this, saying something about that sometimes the Supreme Court made good decisions, and there was justice. Bruce had just leered and signed the cheque.

‘That was a nice speech.’ Clark said when Lois sat down, raising his voice slightly so she could hear it. She was at the table closest to them, sitting with everyone Clark and Bruce would consider friend or family. To her left, Jimmy Olsen. To her right, Alfred. The table was rounded off with Martha Kent, Dick Grayson, and Lucius Fox. Not for the first time, Clark wished that Diana had agreed to come. Lois smiled at the compliment.

‘It was a nice speech.’ Bruce agreed distantly, lost in thought. A split second later his face cleared, and he turned to Clark. ‘Your mother decided not to do a speech?’

Bruce knew this. Clark wasn't sure why he asked.

‘Yeah. She said she would cry too much, and embarrass everyone. So she suggested Lois instead.’

‘A good speech.’ Bruce repeated.

A few minutes later, the main course was brought in and wine was served. A young waiter arrived with the bottle of wine, and filled their glasses before she started rearranging the table to move Clark's table setting to where he had moved his chair.

‘Oh, you don't – I can move back.’ She shook her head and waved away his offer.

‘No, no, it's your special day. It's no bother.’ She moved over all the glasses (five glasses was excessive, Clark thought, but Bruce had insisted on a new wine for each course), the sets of cutlery, even the unnecessary place card. She adjusted the floral centrepiece to make sure the rose pairs were facing them. ‘Sir, are you done with your Chablis?’

Bruce finished the last swill of his white and handed her his glass. She accepted Clark's with a smile.

‘Your food will be out in a moment.’ She paused for a split-second. ‘And congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’ Clark didn't expect the warmth in Bruce's voice. He realised all at once that he had been staring at him ever since Lois's speech started. Bruce didn't seem to mind.

The food was excellent. Of course it was. The quail was perfectly cooked; the sauce was flavourful and rich; the potatoes and vegetables were roasted to perfection. They ate in a contented silence. More than once Clark glanced up at Bruce to find Bruce doing the same thing. Every few minutes, one of the guests would scurry up to them to offer their congratulations, and Bruce was always glowing with confidence and good answers. He ran his fingers down Clark's back as he agreed, _yes_ , Clark was the luckiest man in Metropolis, but nothing compared to how he was the luckiest man in Gotham. Clark bit down a shudder at the touch and took another sip of his wine.

Halfway through the main course, Bruce leaned over to kiss the sharp edge of Clark's jaw. He was not able to suppress that shudder. Bruce's eyes were indescribably dark when he leaned back into his seat.

While their plates were cleared off, and their wine was topped up, Alfred prepared for his speech. When he started speaking, Bruce shifted in his chair to better see him, leaning back. Without even thinking about it, Clark moved his chair again to let him lean back against his chest. In a half-embrace – Clark's arm cradling Bruce against him, Bruce's head against his collarbone – they listened to Alfred.

‘I have known Master Bruce since he was born. I was the fifth person to ever meet him. His mother, his father, and the doctor and nurse who delivered him were before me, but with Bruce Wayne, even fifth place is an achievement. In all my life, there is no one I have spent as much time with as him. I wouldn't have it any other way.’ Bruce craned his neck, and Clark placed a kiss on the top of his head. Bruce squeezed his hand. He wasn't sure when they started holding hands again. ‘As Lois intimated, Bruce has had more than his fair share of paramours. But none of them lasted, and none of them seemed to truly impact him. Not like Clark Kent.

Clark had never thought about what a good public speaker Alfred was. He spoke calmly, each word clearly enunciated. He remembered that Bruce had once mentioned that he used to be in the theatre, and he could suddenly see how good he must have been at it.

‘From the first time I met him, I knew that Master Kent was different. That _Clark_ was different. If I remember correctly, the first time they ever met, they had an argument. I don't know what it was about, and I have to ad mit that Master Bruce was probably in the wrong, but I remember vividly him coming home and telling me about it. He was fuming, swearing, and very obviously smitten. It took him a very long time to realise this. Long before they became friends, and long before they became more than friends, I could tell that there was something about them that was new. I could tell, too, that Master Bruce became a better person once he started letting Clark in. I didn't know Clark before they met, but I hope that Bruce helped him improve, too. They're both stubborn. I'd almost say pigheaded.

A laugh rippled through the crowd. Bruce scoffed and adjusted his shoulders, burrowing closer to Clark.

‘But both very excellent men. I am lucky to have them been part of their life, and I can only hope they won't push me out now. After all, I'm still the only one who can make Bruce Wayne's favourite apple pie.’ Who knew Alfred was so _funny_? ‘I don't want to get sentimental. I let Clark's mother read my speech before the ceremony. She cried. I don't want to make her cry again, so I'll cut this short. To Master Bruce and Clark. To love.’

‘To love!’ the crowd answered, hundreds of crystal wine glasses raised in response.

Bruce tipped his head back, meeting Clark's eye. It was probably just a moment, but it felt like forever. Clark could feel his own heart, beating faster than usual, a staccato rhythm all because of Bruce's proximity. Bruce's heart, too, sounded different. He smiled lazily and lifted his head just slightly, nudging chin against chin.

Hoping he didn't misunderstand, that this wouldn’t be the straw that broke the camel’s back, Clark dipped his own face to meet his lips. The kiss was short, sweet, and perfect. When he pulled back, he glanced down to the floor to make sure he wasn't actually levitating. No, his chair was firmly on the ground.

Bruce moved to sit up, holding Clark's hand firmly as he adjusted his chair and sat up straight. He turned his hand over and planted a kiss on Clark's ring finger, his lips brushing against the gold.

Then he was gone, by Alfred's side in a moment. Clark made an intentional effort _not_ to hear their hushed tones. A similar monumental effort was needed when Bruce gestured towards the exit, and the pair got up and walked to the entrance. Clark could see them there, Bruce speaking and Alfred listening, arms crossed. There seemed to be a sense of frustration in Bruce's manner, in the way he stood. He couldn't watch, and he would not eavesdrop.

Instead, he moved over to the table next over, sitting by his mother in Alfred's chair.

‘Did you really cry, Mom?’

She giggled, embarrassed.

‘She did. I saw them.’ Dick swiped Alfred's mostly-full wine glass, and poured half of it into his own. Martha Kent stroked her hand down her son's arm.

‘It was a beautiful speech. You should ask Alfred for a copy.’ His mother's hand had come to rest on his wrist, her fingers tracing patterns on the top of his hand.

‘I don't want to impose.’

‘Don't be silly, Clark! I didn't raise a fool.’ She pressed a fingertip against his nose for a second before taking his hand again. She traced over his wedding band with her free hand. ‘This is beautiful, Clark. Thank you for letting me come.’

‘Thank you for coming.’

She smiled so brightly at him, so fondly. She smiled like a mother who had just watched her son marry the love of his life. ( _Well_ , Clark's mind injected. _She has_.) Clark glanced back to where Bruce and Alfred were speaking. It was Alfred's turn to speak now. Bruce seemed tense, his morning coat unbuttoned and his hands at his hips. Alfred reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. Bruce's head fell as he listened to him, then he nodded.

‘What are they talking about?’ Dick asked, having followed Clark's gaze.

‘No idea.’

‘No eavesdropping?’ the young man seemed surprised.

‘It doesn't seem right.’

Both of Alfred's hands were on Bruce's shoulders now. Then, with a momentary brush of his hand on Bruce's cheek, Alfred nodded towards the party. They started walking back together, Bruce shaking hands and smiling at guests as he passed them.

Clark moved back to his own chair. He squeezed Lois's shoulder when he passed. Clark waited to allow Bruce a moment to settle down, button his coat again, and replace the napkin in his lap.

‘Is everything alright?’

Bruce met his eye. He looked hesitant and younger than Clark had ever seen him.

‘Yes. Everything is fine.‘ His attention was stolen by a waiter trying to take his half-empty glass of wine. ‘No, sorry, I'm not done with that.’

While he finished his wine, drinking deep swills, he placed his hand over Clark's. He let it stay there until the next course was delivered: cheese, nuts, and dried fruits, paired with a syrupy port. Bruce finished his wine and raised his port glass. Clark lifted his glass to meet the toast. The crystal sang when they clinked their glasses together.

Bruce ate the cheese with his fingers, sandwiching the soft cheese between two almonds, lifting the blue cheese and dried cherries to his mouth. Clark watched him as he also ate (with a knife and fork, since there _was_ cutlery laid out for this exact purpose), and tried to not focus on Bruce's mouth.

Clark wondered if he'd done something wrong.

The cheese course was quickly followed by the final dessert – a light cheesecake paired with a delicate moscato. There was something odd about watching Bruce drink pink wine. It was so different from his scotches, heavy reds, and vintage champagnes. Bruce took his third bite of the cake before he looked up at Clark.

‘How do you like it?’

‘It's wonderful. Heavenly.’ The cheesecake had been one of Bruce's few concessions. Bruce had taken charge of nearly every aspect of the wedding that the wedding planner would let him, but he had been adamant that Clark should get to choose his favourite dessert.

‘Do you think we should've cut a cake?’ Bruce looked out at the crowd of guests, laughing and toasting with one another. ‘It would have made for good pictures.’

Clark shrugged.

‘For a crowd this big, we’d need a really big sword to make sure everyone would see it. It would’ve been unwieldy.’ Clark said, and Bruce exhaled in amusement. ‘And anyway, it's nice just having everything brought to you. I've just had to show up, be polite, and eat ridiculously good food.’

‘And marry me.’

Clark had never heard Bruce speak so softly. He wasn't smiling, and his eyes were piercing. There was something in his face, some question that Clark couldn't quite suss out. He was so beautiful.

‘That wasn't very hard.’ Clark's smile felt cautious, catching on his teeth. Bruce stared at him and opened his mouth.

They both jumped at the sound of a glass being tapped, the crystal singing and demanding attention.

It was time for Dick's speech.

Bruce swallowed, dragged his lower lip through his teeth, and reached out for Clark's hand again.

‘I’m Dick Grayson,’ Dick began with a smile, ‘and Bruce Wayne raised me.

‘This means that I have learned many things: how to tie some ridiculously complicated neckties; which set of cutlery I should use for which course; the correct method of opening an oyster; and knowing what boardroom meetings you can nap through.’ The crowd laughed and Bruce huffed. ‘He also taught me other things, too. Things, I think, he didn’t mean to teach me. How to be stubborn. How to look like you know what you’re doing. How to look like you _don’t_ know what you’re doing. And how to love.

Dick exhaled. Clark glanced up at Bruce, who was watching his son with a fixed gaze.

‘Bruce is very good at everything he puts his mind to. He doesn’t trust easily, so you know that if he trusts someone, there’s good reason to.’ Dick hesitated. ‘And I don’t think that my father has ever trusted anyone as much as he trusts Clark. And – there’s a lot of other things I could say, but most of them are very sentimental and a little boring. Bruce told me not to embarrass him, which really hampers my ability to do a good speech.

No one laughed quite as loudly as Alfred did. Dick’s smile was bordering on coy as he told milquetoast stories about growing up with Bruce Wayne: how Dick would wake up when Bruce came home from his late-night parties and make a mess of mixing Ovaltine; what a terrible and overprotective driving instructor he had been; how offended Bruce had looked when he had visited Dick at college and seen cans of Bud Light in the fridge. Later, he told the crowd, his smile small and fond, about their zoo trip that spring; how gentle Bruce’s smile had been and how he had clammed up when Dick had teased him that night. (Clark didn’t know if he was lying. He didn’t know how to read the soft blush splashed under Bruce’s eyes.)

Dick cleared his throat.

‘All this to say: I’m the underwhelming opening act for the final speech of the night, the speech you’ve actually been waiting for. Bruce told me that they flipped a coin to decide who was going to do a speech. He – unsurprisingly, really – won. You would’ve thought that the professional writer would’ve been the one to hold a speech at his wedding, and you would be wrong. Still, I am at time, and I’d like to hand it over for our host. Can we do a round of applause, maybe?’

The clapping was a roar of noise and Bruce looked embarrassed. He waited until the waiters distributing champagne had finished before he got up, his own coupe delicately held. Bruce smiled, all Wayne.

‘Hi.’ Bruce said, looking out at the sea of tables and faces. He knew each face, even though Clark didn’t. Somehow, he seemed nervous. ‘I had written this whole speech, and it was stupid and self-indulgent and really not very well-written. I don’t think I’ll read it.’ He tapped the index cards he had taken from his jacket pocket against the table, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He put the cards back in his pocket. ‘And that’s a cliche, right? The protagonist writes a speech and then decides not to read it, and the speech he improvises is ten times better than the one he had been working on for weeks?

He laughed, self-deprecating and canted. He glanced at Clark before continuing.

‘Indulge me, and let me be the protagonist for a moment. This speech isn’t good, and it isn’t long. It’s only a few words, so you’ll be able to make it through to the dancing in a moment. Still, this is much better than anything I already put together. So, here goes. Clark.’ Bruce hesitated for a moment, glancing over the crowd. He licked his lips. He turned to Clark. He inhaled. ‘I love you.’

A moment passed.

‘Cheers.’ He added, lifting his coupe but still looking at Clark.

He was looking, looking, _looking_ at Clark, his eyes so dark and open and honest and _Bruce_ . Clark didn’t breathe because somehow there wasn’t any air left in the room, maybe not any air left on _Earth_ . Bruce, his beautiful eyes still fixed on him; his beautiful face worried and taut and hesitant. His glass to his beautiful lips, toasting Clark. (Toasting their _marriage_.) He raised the coupe again when the guests gave _Cheers!_ And then he sat down, next to Clark again, as though everything was the same as it had ever been.

(The words replayed in Clark’s head, working and reworking through the different ways the three words could be emphasised. I _love you. I_ love _you. I love_ you. Or, as Bruce had said it, flatly and openly and efficiently and beautifully like everything he does, the same focus on each word: _I love you._ )

As he stared dumbly, the catering staff started milling through the great hall, collecting plates and empty glasses. Bruce downed his champagne in one fell swoop and handed the coupe to a passing waiter. He was still looking at Clark, and Clark was still unable to say anything at all. He managed to meet his eye, but only barely. He worked his throat but there was nothing he could say.

( _I love you_ , Bruce said after all this time, as though it was _easy_ and like it was _true_ . Clark wanted to scream and he wanted to kiss him and he wanted to grab his face between his hands and ask if it was true, if he loved him, if he finally _finally_ loved him.)

‘The dancing will begin soon,’ Bruce murmured, or maybe he spoke clearly. The world roared around Clark’s ears.

‘We should go then,’ Clark agreed, dumbly and distant.

‘They _are_ waiting for us.’ Bruce said.

Clark accepted the offered hand (warm and dry and it felt like home) and allowed himself to be led to the ballroom.

A first dance was required. Bruce had, weeks ago, made it clear that it wasn’t that he _wanted_ to dance, but that if they _didn’t_ dance people would gripe and complain and be a pain, so it was better to do the dance and be good with it. He had even asked Clark to take _classes_. Still, they had never danced together before.

It wasn’t a waltz, not quite. Bruce’s hands were warm through his shirt and jacket, fire against Clark’s back and left palm. The silver of Bruce’s ring felt cold against the heat of his skin.

Alone on a ballroom floor meant for hundreds of couples, Bruce spun Clark across the room to the music of a chamber orchestra. Clark managed not to falter, not to trip, not to embarrass himself. Bruce's hand on his waist and their fingers laced together kept him standing, kept him able to follow his lead. Their faces were close, and he could hear Bruce's breath in his ear. He could barely hear the music for Bruce's heart, beating faster than it should. He followed another twist of steps, moved into motion by the slightest pressure of Bruce's fingers. He wet his lips and spoke.

'Can we talk about your speech?'

Bruce did not falter, not really. Not to the human eye. But for a few bars, his steps were off by just a fraction, just a smidgeon. He exhaled in Clark's ear.

'Later.'

Clark inhaled.

‘Later,’ he agreed.

* * *

Before _later_ , there was a lot of _now_. Neither of them danced again, to Clark’s mother’s chagrin and Alfred’s evident relief. They watched Alfred and Martha dance; they watched Dick twirl Lois through an elegant waltz. They shook hands with strangers that mattered to some facet of Wayne Enterprises, Bruce’s smiles gracious and sharp. Bruce stayed close to Clark, a hand in the small of his back or fingers hovering at his elbow. When they were drawn into conversations, Bruce would twist his wedding band while he listened and delivered perfect replies, his shoulder nudging against Clark’s.

They ran into Harper in the area where waiters were handing out delicate china cups of coffee. Her blue hair was bright against her tuxedo.

‘This coffee’s terrible,’ she said by way of greeting.

‘Regretting your decision to join the corporate world, Ms Row?’ Bruce asked before accepting a cup from a waiter and taking a sip.

‘Nah, I just wish that I was done with the licensing so I could _do_ something.’

Harper Row had accepted a job at Wayne Industries almost a month and a half ago. Three weeks ago, Bruce had told Clark about Gotham’s latest vigilante, a bright-haired woman with a knack for electronics known as Bluebird. Officially, the Bluebird and Batman had not yet met, but it was inevitable. Bruce had invited Harper and a handful other recent Wayne employees to the wedding, ostensibly to further the idea that Bruce Wayne was the physical embodiment Wayne Enterprises. _Don’t tell them you know me_ , Bruce had told her on the phone, and Harper had laughed and promised that she would tell everyone about his despicable coffee habits.

‘I’m sure you’ll be done before you know it. There’s more exciting things down the road for you than you could possibly imagine.’

‘That’s the hope.’ Harper pushed her hair out of her face. ‘Congrats, by the way. Well done on finally being married. I’m heading out soon, but I wanted to say that before I left.’

‘Thank you.’ Bruce smiled the same almost-sincere smile he had been working on all night when talking to guests. ‘I do appreciate you coming. I know this isn’t really your, hm, scene.’

‘Know your enemy, Bruce.’ She winked. ‘I shouldn’t keep you, but I _am_ very happy for you.’

‘Thank you.’

For the next hour, Bruce stayed at Clark’s side, introducing him to guests and laughing, embarrassed, when people commented on his speech. Clark smiled wide when an elderly gentleman told him that Lois’ speech was the darn nicest thing he’d ever heard, and promised to pass it on. Bruce didn’t stop touching him, his hand on Clark’s back or his arm in the crook of Clark’s elbow or his fingers entwined with Clark’s. As more and more people started dancing, the room got warmer. Little by little, Bruce’s styled hair came undone, strands falling into his face. He leaned his face into Clark’s touch when he reached out to push it back. One corner of his mouth tugged in a smile that didn’t quite make it out. Across the dance floor, Lois was having a drink with Alfred, and for a second, she met Clark’s eye. She winked at him and raised her eyebrows. Clark smiled despite himself and looked away. (He looked at Bruce. There was nothing else he really wanted to look at.)

When the chamber orchestra was packing up and the music had been replaced with Top 40 tracks blasted loudly enough that Clark’s head had started hurting, Bruce grabbed his arm again.

‘We can go upstairs. The party has reached a point where you and I are not needed, and I don’t really want to listen to whatever this is.’

‘Okay,’ Clark said, his hummingbird heartbeat loud in his ears, ‘lead the way.’

* * *

The honeymoon suite was littered with red rose petals, leading a path from the door to the bed. Clark found himself counting each petal, trying to figure out how many roses must have been picked apart to create this scene. He wondered about the logistics, if the roses were plucked by hand or if there were petal-picking machines specifically designed for hotels like the Ritz. It was easier to distract himself like this than to watch Bruce move through the suite so easily, discarding his jacket over a chair and walking over to a table laden with chilled champagne and chocolate roses. He lifted the bottle and read the label. With one hand busy unbuttoning his waistcoat, he put the wine back and looked at Clark.

All at once, it was very hard to meet his eye.

‘They skimped on the vintage,’ Bruce nodded at the champagne. He picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry and bit down, still watching Clark. It wasn’t provocative, not technically, but it felt very unfair. ‘The idea that chocolate strawberries and champagne go together is a scam, you know.’

Clark felt the question _is it?_ rest on his tongue and a part of him wanted to ask that and allow them both the comfort of discussing things that didn’t matter at all. But Clark had waited so long, he had waited _too_ long, and if they didn’t talk now, he knew they never would.

‘Is that what we’re talking about?’ He finally managed.

‘Is there something else you wanted to talk about?’

Bruce had finished the strawberry, and touched the pads of his fingers with his tongue. He circled the table and leaned against it, arms crossed. Clark recognised the defensive pose: it was just how Bruce had carried himself the first weeks and months after Clark had come back, walking the tightrope of their collaboration and the seed of their friendship.

Clark walked across the room until he reached the table, Bruce facing the other way next to him. He didn’t reach out to him, fixing his stare on the champagne and strawberries on the table. Even though they weren’t touching, he could feel Bruce’s oh-so-human heat through his clothes. He could hear his breath; his heart; the flutter of his eyelashes when he blinked. It was a wonder that Clark ever heard anything else.

‘Did you mean what you said?’ He asked.

‘I know how it looks – I know how it _is_ ,’ Bruce started, side-stepping the question, ‘and we can do an annulment, – this doesn’t have to reflect badly on you. I’ll think of something damaging but not career-ruining. It’s the least I can do.’

‘Bruce, _no_.’ Clark reached out now, turning his body so he could run his hand down Bruce’s shoulder, curling his fingers around his elbow. Before Clark’s fingers touched Bruce’s, he let his arms fall to his sides and turned just slightly into Clark’s touch. ‘Can you be honest with me? What you said. Did you mean it?’

Bruce had closed his eyes.

‘Yes.’ He opened his eyes again, but his face was still closed off. ‘And I understand how badly this reflects on me.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’ Clark wasn’t following, too stuck on Bruce’s admission to grasp the purpose of his self-flagellation.

‘All this. The gifts, the suits, the kissing you like I had the right to. You agreed to do all this just because you are nice to a fault. It wasn’t fair of me to do this when I wanted you.’

Oh. _Oh._

Clark moved his hand to Bruce’s shoulder, his thumb stroking the same small arc over his collarbone.

‘I thought you were the world’s greatest detective.’

‘It was _one_ magazine that said that,’ Bruce complained through gritted teeth, but his face softened when he glanced down at Clark’s hand, ‘but I think I’m catching on.’

‘How long?’ Clark asked and reached for Bruce’s hand. His ring was the same temperature as his skin now, warm and reassuring.

‘I don’t know.’ He looked displeased at giving this answer, so at odds with Batman’s certainty. ‘I don’t think I realised just how... _much_ I – felt.’

‘Bruce, I–’

‘You know what a bad idea this is, right?

This was Bruce all over: critiquing and criticising, even as his fingers closed around Clark’s and he shifted his position, bringing them closer together.

‘This isn’t just two people. We aren’t just people. If this ends badly, it’s not just us it affects. Would you really risk the world for this?’ He met Clark’s gaze full-on now, his eyes calculating and wary. ‘I can promise you that I’m not worth it.’

‘That’s not your decision. It’s mine. And I–‘ it was Clark’s turn to waver, to shift his vision for just a moment before coming back, ‘and I’m in love with you.’

Bruce exhaled through his nose, a laugh or a sigh.

‘You shouldn’t be,’ Bruce demurred even as he leaned into Clark’s hand, now against his cheek. 

‘But you love me too, don’t you?’ Clark didn’t like how needy he sounded, how concerned and gun-shy he was.

‘Yes.’ Bruce barely hesitated.

‘Say it.’

‘You’re pushing your luck, kid.’

All at once, the mood shifted, and Clark knew that things was going to be alright. He laughed a little and – he wasn’t quite sure if he was the one who moved, or if he pulled Bruce closer, but there they were, almost pressed chest-to-chest. Bruce’s free hand had come to a rest on Clark’s waist, the pressure feather-light.

‘Think it of as a wedding gift. I didn’t get any real presents, after all.’

Clark grinned and Bruce _sighed_ , a smile ghosting on his face.

‘You chose a charity; I chose a charity. Do you want to check the totals?’

Bruce had suggested, and Clark had agreed, that a registry of wedding gifts would be excessive and that encouraging charitable donations would be a better choice. Since the invitations were sent out, Bruce would occasionally mention the running totals and Clark would struggle to _imagine_ what could be done with that money. Last they had looked, it had been more money than Clark had ever earned.

‘No, I don’t.’ Clark leaned in, their lips almost touching, and he could hear the spike of Bruce’s pulse, the slight dilation of his pupils. (How had he _missed_ this?) ‘I love you and I want you to say that you love me.’

Bruce tried to kiss him. Clark lifted his head away, holding him off with only human strength. Bruce could easily get out of this grip, Clark knew, and Bruce had to know that, too. He was only playing along.

‘Everyone’s going to be so smug.’ Bruce said.

‘Smug about what?’

‘That you were stupid enough to fall in love with me.’

‘ _And_?’

He must have decided that that was enough playing. Bruce shook his hand free and placed them on either side of Clark’s neck, his thumbs against the sharp of Clark’s jawbone.

‘That I fell in love with you is old news to everyone but you,’ Bruce said. Then he furrowed his eyebrows, licked his lips. He tilted Clark’s face so their eyes met. ‘I’m in love with you.’

Clark couldn’t think of a clever riposte, so he kissed Bruce instead.

Tonight, there wasn’t much more that needed to be said.


End file.
